Death Be Not Proud
by Jane4God and JH
Summary: Andrew goes on trial for murder.
1. Chapter 1

******A/N: In order to understand the posting of this, please read the note under our profile.**** **

Death Be Not Proud

by Jane4God and J.H.

_Death, be not proud, though some have called thee_

_Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;_

_For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow_

_Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me._

_From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,_

_Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,_

_And soonest our best men with thee do go,_

_Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery._

_Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,_

_And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,_

_And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well_

_And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?_

_One short sleep past, we wake eternally_

_And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die._

----John Donne

"How was school today?"

The immediate, clamorous response from both sides of the supper table brought a smile to William Marshall's lips, and he held up his hands to stem the flood of enthusiasm that was making it impossible for either him or his wife to comprehend what their children were saying.

"Slow down, both of you," he said, reaching for the butter dish. "Your mother and I can't understand a word you two are saying." He picked up his knife and looked at his daughter, who was waiting expectantly. "Elsie, you first."

The eleven-year-old grinned and happily stuck her tongue out at her older brother in triumph. Kevin just rolled his eyes . . . it was a nightly game they played, and one that he would miss dearly next year when he was away at college.

The game over, Elsie turned her attention back to her father, her former enthusiasm returning. "It worked! The volcano worked! It erupted and _everything_!"

"Great!" her father replied. The whole family had been up until ten o'clock the night before helping Elsie with her science project. She had built the volcano by herself, but she hadn't been able to get the right combination of baking soda and vinegar to make it erupt. She had enlisted Kevin's help at seven, but by ten o'clock (when they finally achieved success), both of her parents had joined in on the fun; although, it had taken her mother until midnight to clean up the disaster it had left in the kitchen. That morning, Susan had carefully measured out the exact amounts of baking soda and vinegar from the previous night's success and sent her daughter off to school with the hope that it would work again.

"That's wonderful, honey," Susan said.

Elsie beamed proudly. "The teacher said our next project is to build a three-foot paper maiche dinosaur." With that, she scooped up a forkful of mashed potatoes and became oblivious to the rest of her family, intent on her supper.

Susan and William exchanged amused, but weary, glances across the table. William could tell what his wife was thinking. If the volcano had made a mess . . ..

"Hey, Dad," Kevin said, interrupting the silent conversation his parents were engaged in, "guess what?"

"What's that, Kev?" William asked, glancing over at his son.

"They made me co-captain of the football team today."

"Good for you, son!"

"And," Kevin continued, "there's going to be a scout from Notre Dame at the game tomorrow night."

"Kevin, that's wonderful!" Susan said.

"Nervous, son?" William asked, nodding towards Kevin's still-filled plate.

"Maybe a little," Kevin admitted with a sheepish grin.

"You need to eat, Kevin," Susan said. "I even made strawberry shortcake for you tonight."

"Thanks, Mom, but–"

"Oh, no!" Susan lamented. "I forgot to get whipped topping when I was at the grocery store today!"

At the words "grocery store," Elsie's head snapped up.

"I can run to the little store on the corner! Please, Mom! I can do it!"

"I don't know, Elsie," Susan began.

"Awww, Mom, come on!" she pleaded. "It's not even six-thirty, and it doesn't get dark until after seven, and it's only right down on the corner. Pleeeeeease!"

Susan hesitated, and glanced at William for help. Elsie had recently started to stretch her wings, but Susan wasn't so sure she was ready to let her little chick go flying yet.

"Let her go, Susan," he said. "She's done it before. It's not that far, and we can see the store from the front window."

"Yeah, c'mon, Mom!"

Susan sighed. "All right, but you go and come right back. No dawdling."

Elsie grinned and pushed her chair back. "All right!"

"Want me to come with you, El?" Kevin asked with a knowing twinkle in his eye, as Susan pulled a few crumpled bills from her pocket.

"Yeah, right, Kev," she replied, taking the money and skipping out the kitchen door.

"Come right back!" Susan called after her.

Elsie skipped proudly down the sidewalk, the money tightly clenched in one fist. Not even Mary Sue or Jessica got to go to the store by themselves. They would be so jealous of her when she told them tomorrow.

A motion further down the sidewalk caught her attention, and she looked to see two men walking towards her. One man had his head down, and his hands shoved deeply into his jacket pockets, and seemed completely unaware that someone was walking next to him. And that someone–Elsie stopped skipping as she caught a good look at him. He was dressed in a dove grey suit, and there seemed to be a soft light shining all around him. He was looking straight at her with a sadness in his eyes, but for some reason, Elsie knew he wasn't sad for himself.

Not quite sure what to make of this strange man, Elsie slowed down to a walk. She never once took her eyes from his–for some reason, she seemed unable to do so. But the more she looked at him, the more she felt a strange sort of peace fill her soul. She was almost close enough to reach out and touch him when she tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, and began to fall forward.

The other man tried to reach out to stop her fall, but his hand caught in his jacket pocket. As she was falling, Elsie heard a loud explosion, and felt a searing pain rip through her chest.

"Oh, God," she heard a desperate male voice say. "Oh, no!"

She heard the clatter of metal on the sidewalk and the sound of rapidly retreating footfalls.

"Elsie."

This time, the voice was calm and a haze of pain, she opened her eyes to see that man, the one in the grey suit with the light glowing all around him, kneeling beside her.

"Can't . . . breathe," she gasped. "Hurts . . . so . . . much."

"I know. My name is Andrew, and I'm an angel. I'm going to take you Home."

"Angel?" she whispered with failing breath.

"Yes," he replied, and she closed her eyes, too weak to say more. Andrew looked down next to his feet to where the discarded gun lay. He picked it up, turning it over in dispassionate examination. He sighed and looked up, glancing down the street, but there was no sign of the killer. The killer wasn't his problem, though. He was here for Elsie. He looked back down at her. It wouldn't be long now.


	2. Chapter 2

Andrew drew the child's limp body into his arms, soothing her even more, and waiting to feel the departing spirit arise. Disturbingly, he had no sense of it, yet he knew that all of Elsie's vital signs had ceased. He held her closer still, as if the contact – her closeness – would bring

forth the spirit, so he could guide her safely Home. But there was still no sense of the little girl's spiritual essence, and Andrew was suddenly aware of a ponderous heaviness within himself, both of body and of spirit. He found this truly disturbing, as he did the sudden feeling of isolation.

The sound of sirens brought him back to the moment, and some atavistic inner urgings warned him that he should get away…get away fast! None of it made sense, but he could not bring himself to leave the child.

Gently, Andrew laid Elsie's slight body back down on the concrete. He looked at his hands and coat, seeing her blood covering both. This had never happened before. As an angel of death, he was never subject to death's earthly untidiness. What was happening to him? Why could he not contact this sweet child's spirit and take her to the arms of The Father?

For a moment, Andrew looked down at the dark puddle spreading outward from her side along the pavement, and he began to tremble with a rush of feelings so intense he was almost overcome by them. He looked back at the weapon he had set down, in order to comfort Elsie, now enclosed within the ever-widening pool of blood. Almost in a trance, he reclaimed the gun,

regarding it in wordless horror and felt a surge of anger he had never before experienced. How little respect these mortals had for the God-given miracle of life! How cheaply they treated it!

"Police! Freeze!" a loud voice commanded.

Andrew leaped to his feet, and whirled about to face three uniformed police officers, all of them with their guns drawn and pointed directly at him.

"Drop your weapon!" the one closest to him demanded.

For a moment, Andrew could not comply. He merely stood there, in stunned silence, still trying to make some sense out of what was happening. His green eyes darted from one officer to the other.

The apparent superior advanced towards him, gun held steadily in both hands, his arms extended in front of him as he continued to aim at Andrew. "I said to drop your weapon! Do it! Now!" he shouted.

Looking down at the gun he still held in one hand, Andrew released his hold, letting it fall to the pavement beside him. Immediately, two of the officers grabbed him, slammed him -- front first -- into a brick wall, and began to frisk him roughly. The other officer, the one who had spoken, kneeled beside Elsie's lifeless body, shaking his head.

"No need for the paramedics, except for formalities," he sighed, standing back up. Sergeant O'Neil had been on the force over fifteen years, and had worked the street for most of them, yet he still could not harden to the killing of a child.

Andrew helplessly ventured, "This is all a…a mistake! This…"

O'Neil looked over at Andrew with utter contempt and loathing, and sneered, "Read this 'fine gentleman' his rights, boys. We wouldn't want him to avoid getting what he so richly deserves on a technicality."

One of the two officers restraining Andrew cuffed him, saying, "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right…"

Andrew looked skyward desperately. "Father!" he breathed, for the first time in his existence feeling the icy tendrils of fear gripping him.

One of the officers gave him a shove, sending him in the direction of one squad car. "Your 'daddy' isn't gonna get you out of this one, sick-o," the man growled. "I'm just glad that there's one less murdering piece of garbage off the streets!"

O'Neil quietly echoed his partner's remark, but said, "Take him on down to the station and book him. I suspect they'll transfer the scum to the county jail in the morning. I'll wait here for the coroner and the investigative team," he added. "Lou, you'll have to put in the calls."

"I'm on it, Sarge."

Sergeant O'Neil gave Elsie one last look and then turned his piercing gaze on Andrew. "If I have anything to say about this, pretty boy, you'll burn in hell for eternity. Get him out of my sight, before I decide to by-pass the legal system and take care of this piece of work myself!" he spat.

O'Neil watched as the other two officers shoved Andrew to a squad car and pushed him into the back seat. Now began the difficult part. The child had to be identified and her parents had to be told. Some nights he wished he had listened to his mother and become a doctor!

As he returned his gaze to the lifeless body, he heard the shrill screams of a woman coming from down the street. He looked up to see her rushing towards him in headlong flight, trailed by a man. But the woman abruptly stopped as she came into view of the child's body. It didn't take a brain surgeon to see that she was the little girl's mother. O'Neil quickly moved to block the horror from her sight, but it was too late.

With a cry, Susan darted forward, skirting around the officer and drew Elsie's body into her arms, oblivious to the blood. Her mind could not comprehend the reality of the situation.

"It's okay, baby. Mommy's here," she told her daughter, pressing her to her breast, rocking her in her arms. "I'm going to take good care of you." She looked up into the faces of all the officers on the scene. "Where's the ambulance?! Can't you see she's hurt?" Returning her attention to her daughter, she smoothed Elsie's bangs back from her forehead, the blood from her hand matting them down.

"Oh, dear God."

Susan looked up at the sound of her husband's voice. "She's okay, William. The ambulance will be here soon. She's going to be fine."

William knelt down next to his wife. As a pastor, he had become familiar with death, but his wife's voice was so unwavering in its certainty, he found himself looking up in confusion at Sargent O'Neil. The officer slowly shook his head in reply to William's unspoken question. William closed his eyes and looked away for a long moment before turning back to his wife.

"Susan," he began softly, "Elsie isn't here anymore."

"Of course she is," Susan replied, never once taking her eyes from her daughter's still form. "She's unconscious, that's all. She fell and bumped her head, but she'll be all right once she gets to the hospital." A faint siren was heard in the distance. "See? The ambulance will be here in a just a minute." She continued rocking Elsie. "You're going to be just fine, precious."

William laid his hand on his wife's arm. "Susan . . . Elsie is–" But he couldn't work the words up around the lump in his throat. He looked up at O'Neil in silent supplication.

O'Neil knelt next to Susan. He hated this part of his job, but it had to be done. "I'm sorry, Susan. Elsie is dead."

At those words, William's once-gentle wife turned into a very spitfire.

"Liar!" she spat. "You stay away from my daughter!" She looked wildly about her. "All of you! Stay away! Elsie is going to be _fine_, no thanks to any of you!"

The ambulance pulled up at that moment, and the paramedics poured out, ready to handle any crisis. Susan struggled to rise with the burden of Elsie's body still in her arms. She shrugged off O'Neil's help and carried Elsie over to the medics.

"She needs to get to the hospital right away."

The paramedic in charge took in the entire scene with one sweeping look, and then glanced over to O'Neil for instructions on how to proceed with the situation. O'Neil only nodded to him, and he looked back at Susan.

"Of course, ma'am. If you'll come with us, we'll bring her right to the hospital."

William watched as Susan carefully laid their daughter's blood-soaked body on the pristine white sheets of the gurney and then climbed in the ambulance beside her. Once the ambulance was safely away, he turned to O'Neil, his voice as cold as the pavement under his feet.

"I want to know what happened."

"I'm sorry, Mr. . . ."

"Marshall."

"Mr. Marshall," O'Neil acknowledged. "I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you." Why hadn't he become a doctor? "Your daughter was murdered."

William nodded slowly, as he visibly struggled to keep his emotions in check. It didn't seem real, and part of him could empathize with his wife's denial, but he was too grounded to completely block out reality.

After a long moment, two words worked their way out.

"By who?"

O'Neil stepped aside and motioned towards the squad car. Inside, William could see Elsie's killer, her blood stains liberally splashed across his suit. He had a stricken look on his face, and his eyes were raised to the ceiling of the car as his lips moved in some twisted mumbling.

"I want him dead." A detached part of William's mind registered a slight surprise over the fact that he had voiced such a passionate thought, but William didn't care. He had meant every word of it.

"Don't worry, Mr. Marshall," O'Neil said, his eyes following William's to the back window of the car. "We'll take good care of him." He lip curled in disgust. "Get him out of here," he snapped at one of the officers before returning his attention to William. "We'll need you to come down to the station and fill out a report for us."

William nodded. "I . . . I have to go home first. My son . . . I have to tell him."

"Of course," O'Neil said. "I'll have someone drive you." He looked around for a moment. "Peter! Take Mr. Marshall home, and then bring him to the station."

A uniformed man stepped forward. "Will do, Sarge." He led William over to his squad car, and they drove away.

On the other side of the street, two women had observed the scene with unobtrusive silence. Finally, one spoke up.

"Tess, I don't understand. What's happening? Surely they don't think Andrew committed murder?"

"Monica, I'm afraid that's exactly what they think," replied the other.

"But that's ridiculous! Andrew wouldn't harm a fly!"

"I know that, and you know that, but they don't," Tess said.

"Well, what's going to happen to him?" Monica demanded.

"I don't know," Tess confessed, "but we have our own assignments here to worry about."

"We do?"

"Yes, Angel Girl, we do. Your assignment is to work with Elsie's real killer, and convince him to turn himself in. I'll be staying here to help the Marshalls through the aftermath of their daughter's death."

Monica could only stare at her supervisor. "And who will be with Andrew?"

"The Father will take care of Andrew," Tess replied.

"He's going to be alone?" Monica asked incredulously.

Tess shot her a look. "Are you questioning Almighty God's will, Miss Wings?"

Monica shook her head and looked back at Andrew as the car pulled away. She had never seen him so . . . shaken before. He looked over in her direction, and she gave him her best encouraging smile, but it quickly faded as she realized that he was looking right through her.

"Tess," she cried in shock, as the full truth of the situation became clear, "he can't see us!"

Tess' voice as she answered her charge was somber and still. "No," she confirmed quietly. "He can't."


	3. Chapter 3

The two arresting officers - assigned to Andrew by Sergeant O'Neil - conveyed their prisoner from the squad car into the precinct station. Inside, there were a number of disreputable types sitting on wooden benches, around the front desk area, waiting their turn to be booked. Among them were an assortment of prostitutes, most chewing gum and reapplying their clown-like make-up. There were also gang members, recognizable by their red or blue bandanas, or other clothing, and the obvious drunks and "druggies". Three uniformed officers stood guard over the room.

Andrew was taken directly up to the front desk.

The desk sergeant, Al Geller, looked up from his work. "Well...what have we here?" He regarded Andrew, his blonde hair now disheveled, his always immaculate double-breasted suit covered with Elsie's blood, his hands securely cuffed behind his back, and then turned to Craig Allen, one of the arresting officers for an answer to his question.

"Suspected murderer, Sarge," Allen replied. "Caught at the scene, the murder weapon in his hand, covered with the kid's blood. Victim was an eleven year-old girl."

Sergeant Geller looked back to Andrew, gave a grunt of disgust, then shook his head and shuffled through a pile of forms in front of him, until he found the one he needed. "Let's admit the creep, then get him into a holding cell, pronto," he advised the two officers flanking Andrew. He then looked briefly, again, at Andrew, and then at the form in front of him. "Name?" he snapped.

Andrew, still disoriented and - for all intents and purposes - in shock, just hung his head, helplessly wondering how he could explain to these officers what had really occurred that night. He had expected to find Tess, Monica or even Sam, awaiting him at the station, armed with answers and ready to give reassurance. This, however, had not been the case.

On the way to the station, in the squad car, Andrew had prayed frantically to The Father, as, confused and dazed, he realized that he was now a mortal. He was trying desperately to understand, and prayed that his fellow angels would be on hand at the precinct station to clarify matters. The most difficult thing for him to deal with, however, was his feeling that he was isolated from God. He had never experienced this before, and, as distressing as it was, having to try and understand his predicament, this feeling of "aloneness" was the worst part of the ordeal...by far.

He now stood alone, in the presence of three hostile officers, all of who believed him to be Elsie's murderer. He knew, now, that any attempt to try and share the truth with them was futile.

"I asked you your name," Sergeant Geller repeated impatiently. He turned to officer Allen. "Did he have any identification on him?"

"Nothing," Allen replied. "We searched him at the scene and before bringing in from the parking lot. He had no ID, no wallet, and no money. Nothing but a thousand dollar suit and Gucci loafers."

Returning his gaze to Andrew, Geller asked, one more time, "Are you gonna tell me your name?"

Struggling for a response, Andrew faltered, "I...I..."

"Right!" Geller scoffed, and began to scribble on the form. "You are now officially John Doe," he said. "If you feel the urge to change this, at any time, feel free to tell someone in charge. Now, these two nice officers are going to admit you. They are going to take your prints and your picture. It's possible we can get a match from that information, and discover who our Mystery Guest is." He nodded at the two officers, "Get him out of here. Put him in a private "suite", fellas."

As the arresting officers began to drag Andrew away form the desk, Geller called out, "Hey....John Doe...don't go getting too used to our classy holding accommodations. You'll be arraigned in the morning, and then taken to the county jail, which will be your home during the trial proceedings. They aren't as sweet over there as we are here. Which reminds me...do you have council to represent you?"

Andrew shook his head. "Not at this time." He replied softly.

"REAL positive about that, but you don't know your name, huh? Fine," Geller nodded. "We'll arrange to get you legal representation. Hope whoever it turns out to be is REALLY good. To be honest, I don't think that Perry Mason himself could get you off."

Andrew was taken to a room just off the main admitting area, fingerprinted, photographed - from three sides - then taken into the holding area. At all times, both officers regarded Andrew as if he were something foul they had scraped off the bottom of their shoes.

The holding cells held representations of the types in the waiting area: drunks, "druggies", gang members and prostitutes. Andrew was taken to an empty cell, pushed inside, and locked behind the heavy steel bars. The solid finality of the "klang" of the cell door drove him deeper, still, into despair.

"Hey!" shouted one of the streetwalkers, from the cell adjacent to Andrew's. "How come pretty boy gets special treatment?"

"Shut up, Minnie," Officer Allen scoffed. "But, I advise you to ignore this bird."

"Why?" another prostitute, named Ruby, queried. "What's he in for...being illegally good looking?" The other six prostitutes in the cell with Ruby and Minnie all laughed at her comeback.

"He 'offed' a kid..a little girl," Allen replied. Then added, glaring at Andrew, "ALLEGEDLY, that is."

Minnie regarded Andrew coolly. "That right, Baby Face? Did you really snuff a kid?"

Andrew sat heavily down on the cot, running his long fingers back through his thick mass of blond hair. "Father," he breathed, "why have you pulled away from me now? Can't I at least know the reason you have made me mortal...or the reason you have put me here with these charges against me?"

"What's that you're sayin', baby?" one of the hookers called to Andrew.

"Looks like he's prayin'," another replied.

"If he killed a kid, God sure ain't listenin' to any prayers he's sayin'!" Minnie put forth, and there came a mumbled chorus of agreement from the other occupants of her cell.

"He's sure dressed like he's got money," Ruby added.

Minnie nodded, "Could be he's a murderer for hire. I hear they make LOTS of scratch." She seemed to consider the object of their discussion. "He sure don't look like a kid-killer."

Andrew just sat, his elbows on his knees, his face now in his hands. God had given him no answer to his prayers and pleas, yet he struggled to keep his faith, knowing that God did everything for a reason. It was just a lot harder accepting this as a mortal, than it had been as an angel. He made a mental note to be less pompous when giving faith lectures to mortals in the future.

Andrew whispered another prayer, this one for Elsie. "Please, Father...if you must leave me in darkness, be sure that Elsie has an angel to take her Home, and send an angel to her family. They are surely going to need one."

Somehow, Andrew knew that this prayer had already been answered, even before it had been uttered.


	4. Chapter 4

James Gilbert pulled out of the gas station and onto the entrance ramp of the interstate. He looked around, his eyes scanning the lanes of traffic for any sign of police. His foot pressed down on the gas pedal, responding to some inner, almost primal, craving for speed. It urged him onward; had, in fact, buoyed him along for the past two days since–

He quickly expelled the thought, but the more he tried to forget–the more he tried to banish from his mind the memories of that little girl–the faster the recollections came. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, to squeeze them so hard that the memories would flow out of his eyes like tears that could be wiped away and forgotten. But he couldn't, and as he drove on, he found himself completely helpless against their onslaught.

"It was an accident," he whispered to the thin air, as though it had the power of absolution and would somehow render him all the more guiltless for saying so. All he had tried to do was help that little girl. She was falling, and he only wanted to break her fall. But his hand had gotten caught in the fabric that lined his jacket pocket. He had simply pulled harder against the fabric to try to free his hand...how could he have known the gun would go off?

His mind taunted him with truths gleaned from hindsight: if only he had bought that holster like he'd planned . . . if only he hadn't been wearing those gloves . . . if only . . ..

But all the "if only"s in the world wouldn't change things, a small voice in his head accused. And what was worse, it continued, he had run. He had run as though his life had depended on it, as though he were in a marathon where all the losers paid the forfeit with their own lives. He had run without even checking to see if the little girl had survived.

"Stop it!" he screamed, and savagely punched the power button on the radio, desperate for a distraction, for something–anything–to take his mind off of what had happened.

In any case, a different voice reasoned within him, drowning out the first, he had purchased the gun through a friend. It wasn't registered, and he had been wearing gloves, so there would be no way they could trace the weapon back to him. And, he thought, if she were dead, she would still be just as dead if he had stayed at the scene. Why, then, should two lives be destroyed? Besides, there was nothing he could do about it now. It would be best to just forget it had ever happened.

He turned up the volume to the radio. All he wanted was something peaceful to listen to. But as the concerto ended, and a news bulletin came on, a cold sweat tricked down his back and his stomach churned in fear as he listened to the dispassionate voice calmly announce the little girl's murder.

".. . . a unnamed man was arrested at the scene of the crime, allegedly holding the murder weapon, and reportedly covered in the victim's blood. According to police, the suspect refused to give his name. Since he had no identification on him at the time of the arrest, he was booked as 'John Doe', and now awaits arraignment. In other news . . .."

James shut the radio off, his mind in a stupor. No one else had been on the street when the accident had occurred. Who could have come by, and how could they have been so stupid as to pick up the weapon–or become covered in the little girl's blood? A wild thought flashed through his mind: maybe he hadn't killed her after all.

He felt a cramp in his hand and looked down to see that he had a death grip on the steering wheel. An exit ramp was just ahead and he pulled off the interstate and headed down the road towards a town a few miles away. He was in desperate need of a drink, and he vaguely remembered having stopped at a bar once in this town when he was passing through years ago. He hoped it was still there. If not, he would just buy a six-pack at the local grocery store, rent a motel room for the night, and do his best to forget the past forty-eight hours. But, sure enough, it was still there, and he gratefully pulled into the gravel parking lot and turned off the car.

Inside, it was dark and smoky, especially in and around the game room. The rest of the place was cast in an eerie shade of green on account of the plastic shades of the same color wrapped around the lights. Being the middle of the afternoon, there were only a few stragglers hanging around, all of them playing pool or darts while they nursed a beer and a basket of stale popcorn.

James headed straight for the bar, and pulled up a stool directly across from the bartender.

"Whiskey, double, on the rocks," he ordered.

Without a word the bartender filled his order and then went out back, presumably to check on things.

James had only taken his first sip when an attractive woman with a charming smile came from out back.

"Hello. My name is Monica."

He regarded her with some confusion. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

She smiled. "Short order cook. Are you hungry?" At the negative shake of his head, she continued. "We don't get many food orders this time of day, but Hank likes me to be here anyway, just in case he needs to run out for anything."

"Hank?"

"The bartender," she replied, and surveyed him critically. "Are you sure you don't want something to eat? If I may say so, you aren't looking too good."

"I'm just tired, that's all," James said. "I'm going to find a motel and crash for the night."

"A motel?" Monica asked. "I'm afraid there aren't any motels in this sleepy town."

James just sighed wearily and rested his forehead on his hands, presenting, to any casual observer, the perfect picture of a man in prayer. His thoughts, however, were anything but godly. His earlier mental and emotional battle had taken more out of him than he had realized and he did not relish the prospect of having to get back on the interstate again.

Monica smiled down on him, a private smile that might have caused him to suspect that this short order cook was more than she seemed had he seen it.

"You know," she said, "I run a boarding house not far from here. It isn't much, but it's a warm bed and a hot meal, and you look like you could use both. One of our boarders just left this morning, so I have an opening if you're interested."

James looked up at her, a world of gratitude in his eyes. "That sounds wonderful."

"Good," Monica replied. "I'll go tell Hank that I have to leave for a moment. You can just follow me there in your car, and we'll have you all set up in no time."

At James' nod, Monica excused herself and went into the back. Once again, James rested his head on his hands. A hot meal and a good night's sleep. That was just what he needed to help him deal with this. Tomorrow, he promised himself, things would look better. Tomorrow . . . if only he could hold out until then.


	5. Chapter 5

The gray light of the false dawn shown through the dirty skylight windows of the holding room, and Andrew realized that he had been praying all night. The time had spun away, and he was left feeling hollow, something that had never occurred when he had spent time in prayer.

His body was experiencing assorted mortal aches and pains. His head throbbed, his legs were cramped, his mouth was dry and his stomach grumbled with a need for food...even though he didn't feel in the least hungry.

He stood up, rubbing the back of his neck. It was then he became totally aware of the condition of his suit. Tentatively, he touched one finger to the largest bloodstain near the shoulder of the coat, and flinched when he found it still had a tackiness about it. He tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that God had sent another Angel of Death to take Elsie Home, but the fact that he still wore the blood tore at his insides.

Pulling out his gold pocket watch, Andrew saw that it was 5:30 AM. Going over to a filthy sink that stood in the corner, Andrew splashed some water on his face and went back to the cot.

Why had he not heard from Tess, Sam or Monica? Surely they knew what had happened to him, and would never, by choice, have left him alone to face something like this. More to the fact, where was The Father? He was the God of Shelter, the God of Comfort, the God of Mercy...but why was he not answering his prayers, at a time when Andrew desperately needed some answers.

"Father," he rasped, his voice raw from a night of prayer, "I can stand anything...anything! Just please, let me know what it is I am to do here. That is all I ask!"

Andrew was suddenly aware of an officer he had not seen before, coming down the aisle between the rows of holding cells, pushing a cart with metal trays on it. He unlocked each cell, and handed in the number of trays corresponding to the number of occupants each cell held, then relocked the door, and went on to the next cell.

When the officer reached Andrew, he looked at him through the bars. "They told me that we had a child-killer in here," he said, his face expressing his loathing. "If it were me, I'd let ya go hungry...but the city says that our overnight guests get breakfast." Here he opened the cell door, and shoved a tray in Andrew's direction. Andrew took it, setting it down on the cot. "I hope ya choke on it!" the officer hissed, then added. "I'm also supposed to take ya down the hall to use the prisoner's restroom. Let's get this trip over with. You've gotta finish that grub and be ready to meet your court-appointed legal representative. He's due at six."

By the time Andrew was returned to his cell, the prostitutes in the cell across the hall were up and groaning. The officer informed those who had successfully obtained bail money, and let them out of the cell. Minnie and Ruby were among those being released on bail.

Minnie walked over to Andrew's cell, and stood for a moment gazing at him, one hand on her hip, her weight shifted to one side. "You sure are pretty, but that don't excuse what you done. I hope the courts send you to the table." Shaking her head, she added, "Sure is a waste of one good lookin' man...but the loss of a child is a bigger waste...'specially when she was murdered in cold blood." With one last look at Andrew, Minnie walked out of the holding area with her friends and the officer.

Andrew drank the strong coffee, but ignored the rest of the contents of the food tray. He caught a glimpse of himself in the scratched metal of the tray, and winced. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his eyes themselves had an empty, frantic look, not unlike an animal newly captured and caged. But, after all, that is what he was.

At six sharp, the officer that had brought the food, came to Andrew's cell and opened the door. "Come on," he ordered, "your attorney is here." He put the cuffs back on Andrew, and led him to another room, just off the holding cell area.

The room had no windows, and the only furniture was one long table, manacled to strong steel fitting, set into the concrete floor, and two metal benches, also manacled to the floor. The officer indicated that Andrew should take a seat on one of the benches, then left the room, only to return a few moments later, escorting a very efficient woman - in her late thirties -- in a "power suit", carrying a trim briefcase, her auburn hair pulled back into a stark bun at the nape of her neck. The woman wore horn-rimmed glasses and a look that told Andrew she seldom smiled.

The officer went to the door. "I'll be right outside if you need me, Counselor. I have to lock the door, but all you have to do is knock if he gives you any trouble, or if you want out," he assured the woman, who nodded, and then set her briefcase on the table, and took a seat across from Andrew.

She extended her hand. "My name is Carla Leigh. The District Attorney's office has appointed me to take your case," she informed him glibly.

Andrew shook her hand briefly, before she pulled it back and began to open her briefcase. She withdrew a pile of neatly arranged papers, and looked them over before placing them on the table in front of her. "Let's deal with this 'John Doe' issue first, shall we?" she ventured.

"Does it really matter what name you have for me?" Andrew asked her.

"Actually, yes, it does. If you have any paper out there on you, it would help to know what else you have been arrested for, or any other information there might be floating around."

He sighed. "I have never been arrested, I do not have a driver's license or a Social Security card. For the time being, John Doe is as good a name as any." He told the attorney.

She cast him a look of contempt, as she replied, "I see...then what you are telling me, Mr. Doe, is that you have NO paper out there at all, including a Social Security card and driver's license."

"That's correct," he answered, his voice empty and colorless.

"What about an address? Surely you are not going to tell me that you have no address! And a phone number...a bank account..."

"I am not at liberty to divulge my home, Ms. Leigh. And, even if I did, you would probably have me sent in for a psychiatric evaluation, which I will tell you - to save the system time and money - I do not need." He added.

Ms. Leigh cleared her throat. "You know, Mr. Doe, your attitude is not going to help me present your case." She sounded annoyed and slightly exasperated.

Andrew shook his head slowly. "I have given you all I can, Counselor."

"You, Mr. Doe, have given me NOTHING!" she returned. Gathering her composure about her, she then asked, "Are you aware of the severity of the charges pending against you? We are not talking a parking violation here, Mr. Doe...we are talking murder one!'

Andrew merely nodded, but said nothing.

She exhaled slowly. "Okay...let's try this: Did you kill Elsie Marshall?"

Andrew's vivid green eyes met hers with a directness she had seldom seen in a client. "No, Ms. Leigh, I did NOT," was his urgent reply.

She briefly consulted her papers, then replied, "My report, received from Sergeant O'Neil, states that when he, and the two other arresting officers, arrived at the scene of the murder, they found you standing over the dead body of Elsie Marshall - the murder weapon in your hand - and her blood all over your clothing, as I can see for myself. Now, Mr. Doe...how do you explain that, if you were not the murderer?"

"I came upon Elsie after she had been shot," Andrew explained. "I kneeled down beside her, and took her into my arms. She was still alive, and she was frightened...DYING! I tried to give her comfort."

"Instead of offering a child, you KNEW was dying, comfort, Mr. Doe, why didn't you run to the nearest phone and call 911?"

Shaking his head, Andrew replied, "There was no time for that. She was gone as I lifted her into my arms."

"And, why then, did the officers find you in possession of the gun? Was it yours?" Ms. Leigh inquired.

"No," he answered, "the gun was not mine. I...I picked it up, that's all."

"Didn't it occur to you that that was a truly STUPID thing to do? The gun now has your bloody and well-defined fingerprints all over it!"

Sighing, Andrew nodded, "I imagine it does."

"What, exactly, were you doing in that area last night?" the counselor queried then.

"I was on an assignment," Andrew told her truthfully.

"What kind of assignment would take you into that area at night?" she asked him.

"I'm not a liberty to discuss my work," he replied softly, knowing that answer would merely serve to anger her more.

He was right. Ms. Leigh stood up, slamming her small fist down on the table with a force that had to hurt. "I'm sorry, Mr. Doe, but if I am to help you, you are going to have to keep no secrets from me! I have to have answers...truthful answers!"

"Counselor, I shall try and supply you with all the answers I can, and they WILL be truthful. I don't lie."

Ms. Leigh cast her client a look of disgust mixed with sarcasm. "Well, excuse me if I don't jump for joy at that offer, Mr. Doe, but I cannot even get a NAME out of you, let alone any information that I can use in your defense during a trial!"

"I am sorry you find this so exasperating, Ms. Leigh. I am giving you all the answers I can. I did NOT kill Elsie Marshall. I did not see who it was who DID kill her. When I found her she was scared and dying. I tried to offer her my comfort. She...she died. The gun is NOT mine. I have never been arrested before. That's all I can tell you, and it is going to have to do, ma'am." Andrew finished.

Whisking her briefcase off the metal table, Carla Leigh gave Andrew one last withering glance. "I will see you at the arraignment, Mr. Doe, but I am telling you now, with your attitude of secretiveness, I am not going to be able to help you!" She walked to the locked door and knocked. "I suggest you re-think your attitude between now and the arraignment."

The door opened, and Carla Leigh swept out of the room. The officer came in and helped Andrew stand up, his cuffed hands making balance difficult. "She didn't seem too happy," the officer ventured lightly.

"No," Andrew responded, "I don't suppose she is."


	6. Chapter 6

"Thank you for coming," Tess repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. She stood at the front door of the Marshall's house, holding it open for the departing guests–a duty that, by all rights, should have been performed by Elsie's parents, but Susan was still so emotionally fragile that she had to excuse herself as soon as the guests started to arrive, and William–not only had he not been present at the gravesite, but he had simply disappeared in the middle of the gathering, and no one had seen him since. Without a doubt, Tess knew she had her work cut out for herself here.

When the final guest departed, she closed the door and surveyed the "damage" with a heavy sigh. There were discarded plates and cups strewn all over the lower level of the house, and the kitchen could barely be found for all the food stacked on the counters and table. Cleaning up would be quite a daunting task–for a human.

"It's good to be the angel," she murmured to the thin air, and then proceeded to work her way around the disaster towards the staircase. As she reached for the railing, she turned back to see a sparkling clean house. She glanced heavenward and smiled before turning her attention to one of her assignments.

She quietly opened the door to Susan's bedroom, not wanting to wake her, but upon peeking inside, she discovered her concern to be unfounded. The room was empty. Immediately, Tess knew where Elsie's mother had gone. She crossed the hall to another room and quietly, angelically, entered.

Susan was curled up on Elsie's bed, looking for all the world like a little girl herself. She had Elsie's teddy bear clutched tightly to her chest, and her tears had left visible tracks on her cheeks after they'd dried.

Tess' heart went out to her, and she reached for a blanket that lay draped over the back of a chair. Softly, so as not to wake her, Tess covered Susan with the blanket, and just as angelically left the room and returned downstairs.

She made her way to the kitchen door, and found Kevin in the back yard, still dressed immaculately in his dark blue suit, tossing a football in the air. He, too, had managed to slip away from the guests, although he had lasted longer than either of his parents.

"Everybody's gone, baby," Tess said to him, "and the house is clean. There's plenty of food in the fridge, so you don't need to worry about that."

Kevin caught the ball as it fell, and then dropped it at his feet and kicked it away. "Where's Mom and Dad?"

"Your mother is still resting upstairs, and your father–" Tess hesitated.

Kevin looked at her. "He hasn't come back, has he?"

Tess shook her head. "Not yet, baby."

"Lucky him."

Tess put her arm around Kevin's shoulders and steered him toward the porch swing. "Let's sit down for a minute and talk, okay?"

Kevin only sighed and dropped heavily into the swing. "I don't get it."

"Don't get what?"

"Why do they have to have a party after a funeral?" he asked. "It's so stupid."

"Well," Tess began, "when someone dies, the family shouldn't be alone. They should have their friends and family around to comfort them."

"What if they _want_ to be alone?" Kevin demanded.

"Nobody wants to be alone, baby," Tess countered.

Kevin abruptly stood up and turned away. "It's not fair, Tess!" Tess wisely remained quiet and let him speak. After a moment, he turned back. "Elsie–she's dead, and everything is just going on like nothing happened!" Tears welled up in his eyes, and Tess remembered that he hadn't cried at all during the service.

She rose from the swing and wrapped him in her embrace. "I know, baby," she soothed.

"I hate this," he sobbed into her shoulder. She just held him for a long moment until he pulled away, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his suit coat. "And I hate that man!" he continued passionately. " I hate him! I mean, what kind of a man won't even give his _name_?"

"I don't know, baby," Tess said softly, for, truly, she didn't, and, if the truth were to be fully told, it was driving her up the wall. Sometimes, she had all she could do to keep her mind on her assignment. The only thing that kept her grounded at all was knowing that Andrew's life and well-being were in the Father's hands, and Tess knew that there was no better place for him to be.

Kevin only nodded and aimlessly kicked a rock across the lawn. "Nothing makes sense anymore, does it?" he asked cynically. He looked back up at Tess. "I think I'm going to check on my mom. Thanks for your help today."

"Anytime, baby," she said. "I'll be back tomorrow."

Kevin acknowledged her promise with a nod, and disappeared into the house.

Tess went around to the front of the house where her car was parked and got in, her destination firmly fixed in her mind. She started the car and pulled out of the driveway. And since she _wasn't_ human, a heartbeat later, she was pulling into a parking space at the church, right next to William's car.

She quietly entered the sanctuary, and noticed William slouched down in the front pew, the same place he had sat when, only hours earlier, they had laid Elsie to rest. She walked down the aisle and seated herself next to him. His hands were folded and he was staring at the tops of his shoes. She waited for him to speak. A minute passed, and then two, but Tess was an angel, and she had all the time in the world.

"I couldn't do it," he finally said. "I couldn't watch them put my little girl in the ground." He looked up at the front wall behind the pulpit and gazed for a long moment at the stained glass representation of Jesus sitting outside with the little children gathered all around Him. The rays of the afternoon sun were just beginning to shine through the window, bathing the pulpit area in a wash of color. "And I couldn't stand there and listen to the "I'm sorry"s and "I'll be praying for you"s anymore," he continued. "I just had to get out of there." He dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, baby," Tess said firmly.

"You know, Tess," he said, "I've been sitting here for the past two hours, trying to figure this out." He smiled mirthlessly. "People think that pastors have all the answers to life's hard questions, that somehow we have some magical connection with God that gives us an advantage over everyone else." He looked over at her and shook his head. "It used to drive me up the wall to run into people like that, but right now, I'd give anything for that myth to be true, because this whole d a m n mess makes no sense to me!"

"There is no sense in killing," Tess replied.

William gave a short, sneering laugh. "That's another thing about people and pastors, Tess. They all seem to think that I'm super-spiritual, that I'm going to walk up to that man–that _John Doe_–and forgive him like Christ on the cross!" His voice became low and hard, like cold steel. "But I'm not spiritual, and I hate that man more than I've ever hated anything in my life."

"Hate is a terrible thing, baby," Tess said. "It will consume you from the inside out, and it never gives anything back. It just takes and takes from you until there is nothing left. And then it takes that."

"Maybe," he conceded, "but it's the only thing that makes me feel alive right now." His eyes took on a pained, haunted look. "I've cried enough for two lifetimes in as many days. My baby is gone. Seeing that man burn is the only thing that's keeping me from throwing myself off the nearest cliff." His eyes caught the stained glass once more, and as though it were too bright to look at, they filled with tears. "Do you suppose," he asked in a wistful tone, "that Heaven is as pretty as that?"

Tess followed his gaze to the window above the pulpit. "Oh, no, baby," she replied. "It's much more beautiful than that, and your little girl is right in the middle of it all."

Tears splashed down from William's eyes, and his lower lip began to tremble. "I miss her," he whispered hoarsely.

Tess reached out and took his hand. "I know, baby."

William seemed to draw strength from her touch, and he dried his eyes and took a deep breath. "I should get home. Susan will be waking up from her tranquilizer soon, and she'll need me." He stood and looked down at Tess. "Thank you. You're the only one who seems to understand."

"I'm not the only one, baby," she replied. "There's another Person who understands even better than me what you're going through."

William acknowledged the truth of her words with lowered eyes. He hadn't been able to pray since Elsie was killed. It seemed to him that God was a million miles away.

"Perhaps," he said with a noncommittal shrug, and then quickly spun on his heel and left the church before she could force him to confront his demons.

Tess watched him leave. Her work was definitely cut out for her, but she knew that with time and God's love, even the most broken of hearts would heal. Once more, she gazed silently heavenward and prayed–for the Marshalls, for Monica and her assignment, and for Andrew. Especially for Andrew. She had the feeling that he was going to need all the help he could get.


	7. Chapter 7

At 8:30 AM, two uniformed officers came to Andrew's cell and unlocked the door.

"Okay, tough guy...time for your day in court," one said, entering the cell, yanking Andrew's arms roughly behind his back, then slapping a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.

"May I take my jacket off?" Andrew ventured softly.

"What's the matter, kid? Does the sight of the blood of your victim bother you? A child-killer like you?" the older officer, still outside the cell, scoffed. "I think we'll just let you wear it. You know...like that red letter "A" the lady wore in that old book..."

"_The Scarlet Letter_," the officer now moving Andrew unceremoniously out of the cell supplied.

The older officer snorted. "Since when did you go literary on me, Kowalski?"

The younger officer shrugged, as they closed the cell door and pushed Andrew down the holding cell aisle. "I just remember it from Senior English in high," he replied.

They walked past the admitting desk, then out to the parking area, where they put Andrew into a squad car. It was a fifteen-minute drive from the precinct station to the county court house. Andrew's mind was reeling with pain from his headache and the confusion he continued to feel. SURELY, he thought again, there IS some reason for this! But, it was getting harder and harder for him to hang onto that belief.

The courthouse interior was decorated in dark woods and maroon draperies. The judge's bench was of a heavy walnut wood, and behind it was the state flag and the flag of the country. Thick chords of maroon silk, ending in golden tassels, hung to the sides of the draperies, and the jury box...off to the judge's left side, was of a like-colored wood, with 12 uncomfortable-looking wood chairs inside.

Andrew was taken to one of two tables reserved for the defendant and the prosecution. His table would be to the right of the judge, as he sat at the bench.

Already, the counselor for the prosecution, and his assistant, had arrived. He sat at his seat, shuffling through his papers, and cast Andrew a quick glance as the officers walked him over to the opposite table. The younger assistant also looked at Andrew, but for a longer time, his eyes seeming to take the measure of this man accused of murdering a child. More years of experience would take away his curiosity, but, for now, he wanted to assess this criminal visually.

The elder of the two officers removed Andrew's handcuffs and pushed him down into the chair reserved for the defendant. They took seats directly behind him. Andrew worked his way out of the soiled suit jacket, letting it fall around the back of his chair. He then took stock of the courtroom, his eyes searching for a familiar face: for Tess, Monica...for anyone who might be there for him. There was no one. Still, he was alone in his ordeal.

In the back of his mind, in a dark and fuzzy corner he could not bring to clarity, as hard as he tried, Andrew knew that he HAD seen Elsie's murderer, yet he could recall nothing of the face, sex, or age of the killer. He could hardly tell Carla that he SAW the murderer, when he could offer not a single descriptive clue.

WHY had he forgotten this, he wondered. He reasoned that it was probably due to the fact that he was now a mortal, and that the trauma of the incident, the shock of becoming human, and his sudden feeling that God had - for what ever reason - forsaken him, had caused his human memory recall to be abolished. Remembering ANYTHING of the killer could be enough to make a case for him. Yet, he remained unable to do so.

The court bailiff entered, taking his place beside the judge's bench. Next came the court recorder, and took a seat at her steno-machine, smoothing her skirt carefully over her legs, making certain that she was appropriately covered.

Andrew became aware of someone coming up beside him at the large desk, and he looked to see Carla Leigh carefully placing her coat over the back of her chair, and her briefcase on the table. Looking over, Ms. Leigh saw Andrew looking at her. She slipped into her chair, and unzipped her case.

"Anything you want to tell me, Mr. Doe?" she asked, glancing casually at the paperwork she pulled from the briefcase.

He shook his head, a forelock of blond hair falling casually over his forehead. "Nothing that we haven't already covered."

Sighing, Carla replied, "Then, I have to tell you, I don't think we have a chance to have the charges dropped."

"If that's God's will," Andrew said.

Carla looked at him, her dark eyes snapping with annoyance. "You think that God wants you to be arraigned and forced to stand trial on the charge of first degree murder? Is that the reason that you refuse to defend yourself, or to help ME defend you?"

Andrew hesitated. In the position he was in, he knew that telling the counselor he was an angel...or, at least used to be...was not in his best interest. Choosing his words carefully, he replied, "I believe that God's will is done in the vast scheme of things, and in a person's life. Yes, we have free will, but I don't believe that free will can change the course of God's plan, in the long run."

Carla rolled her eyes, and sat back in her chair. "A religious fanatic," she scoffed. She then looked back at Andrew. "Look, Mr. Doe...I'd keep all of that religious malarkey to yourself." She advised. "You're already on thin enough ice. For an alleged child-killer to start spouting stuff about God and free will...well, it just won't play well in this setting. Trust me!"

Andrew fixed her with his haunting eyes and said, "Excuse me for contradicting you, Counselor, but I think that God 'plays' in any setting."

Carla had nothing to come back with. There was something unsettling, disturbing about this man. There seemed to be nothing of a violent, sociopathic or psychopathic nature about him. His words all rang true and sincere, and he was certainly not overtly violent...he seemed actually gentle. That he could have cold-bloodedly killed a little girl was almost incomprehensible. Just looking into his eyes aroused a feeling of sadness and pathos inside of Carla, that she wasn't used to experiencing. She just couldn't seem to get a bead on John Doe, and that was truly bothering her.

"I don't even know how to plead you, Mr. Doe!" she then said.

"I'm not guilty, " he told her emphatically.

"Shaking her head, Carla said, "I think we might have a chance of getting a lesser charge if we plead guilty. The trial would go directly to sentencing, and you might get 20 years...tops. You'd be out in 10 to 15. If you plead 'not guilty', this will go to trail and you don't have a chance in a million of getting off. You might even get the death penalty!"

"I didn't do it, Ms. Leigh," Andrew said again, "and I won't stand up in this court of law and lie -- under an oath to God -- to get a lesser sentence. I won't...I can't!"

"You're determined to lose then?" she challenged.

"I put my trust and my fate in the hands of my Father," Andrew replied softly, but firmly.

A few observers filed into the courtroom, taking seats. The bailiff then called, "All please rise! This is Superior Court 563, the Honorable Judge Moira Kerry presiding."

The door just behind the bench opened, and in walked a tall, blacked-robed woman, in her mid fifties, with fire-red haired twisted on top of her head. She took a seat behind the bench, glancing at the pile of folders in front of her.

"All be seated," the bailiff instructed those present.

The judge had finished her perusal of the case files, and said, "I have before me case #3488...in the matter of the State of Maine vs. John Doe. Will the counsel for the defense and the counsel for the prosecution please stand."

The prosecutor and Carla rose to their feet.

"Please have your client stand as well, Ms. Leigh," the judge added, and Andrew rose and faced the bench.

"Mr. Doe, you are accused of having killed the female child, one Elsie Marshall. How do you plead?" The judge looked at Andrew without discernable expression.

Ignoring the urgent, pleading glance from Carla, Andrew said, "I plead not guilty, Your Honor."

The judge frowned and looked at Carla. "Counselor, did you discuss your client's plea before trial?" she queried.

Carla nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Very well," the judge replied. She then looked at the attorney for the prosecution. "Counselor, please present your case for the prosecution."

****************************

The prosecuting attorney called Sergeant O'Neil and the two arresting officers to the stand. They give their testimony about their findings upon arriving at the crime scene, and the testimony was straightforward and damning. They had interrogated Andrew at the precinct, the night of his arrest, and he had given them the same answers as he had provided Carla Leigh with the morning after. They had taken this as lack of cooperation, lies and evasions. The judge then heard the testimony of the ballistics expert, who swore that the weapon found in Andrew's hand was the gun that had murdered Elsie Marshall, and the forensics expert, who identified the blood found on John Doe belonged to Elsie Marshall. Carla had nothing, but the word of her client, to contest what the officers said on the stand, and that turned out to be, as she had thought, not sufficient.

The judge ordered Andrew to be moved to the county jail, and held over for trial...without bail.

Almost immediately, county Sheriff's officers moved to take charge of Andrew. They not only handcuffed him, but also shackled his ankles.

Carla Leigh stood and watched as the man with the sad and gentle eyes was dragged out the side door to the Sheriff's van, waiting outside the building to transport the prisoner to the county jail. She felt strangely helpless, and surprisingly emotional. The evidence pointed to the fact that John Doe had, indeed, committed the murder of Elsie Marshall, yet, so far, all the evidence was circumstantial...no one had seen John Doe pull the trigger!

As Andrew was taken to the waiting van, the group passed a mother with her young child - an eight-year-old girl named Lisa Sumner - who looked at Andrew with eyes wide and disbelieving.

"Mommy!" she cried pointing to Andrew. "Where are those men taking that angel?"

The mother looked at her daughter in surprise, then endeavored to take her away from the procession, as she replied, "What are you talking about, Lisa? That is a bad man, and they are taking him away to jail. He's not an angel!"

"Yes he is, mommy!" the girl protested. "His name is Andrew. He came to me that day I almost drown in the swimming pool at Auntie Helen's house. When I opened my eyes, the firemen were standing over me, and so was that man! He told me not to worry, and that he was an angel, sent by God, to watch over me. When I looked at him...I wasn't afraid any more."

"Lisa!" her mother scoffed. "For heaven's sake!"

"It's TRUE, Mommy!" the girl argued. "He was all glowy-like, and he leaned over and kissed me...right here..." she pointed to her cheek. "I felt warm and happy. I wanted to go with him, but he told me that I had a long time to live, and that I would see him again one day."

"Sweetie, you were in shock...you were not thinking straight, or seeing straight. You just imagined..."

"No, Mommy! I SAW him. That's Andrew, and he's an angel, and I don't know why those men are taking him to jail!"

Losing her patience totally, the mother grabbed her daughter's wrist, and pulled her towards their car. "That is quite enough of that foolishness," she said emphatically. "That man is NOT an angel, and I think I've heard enough of your stories for one day."

"But..."

The mother opened the car door, and guided her protesting daughter inside. "That's all I want to hear about this, missy! Your imagination is out of control!"

The door was closed and Lisa fastened her seatbelt, tears pooling in her blue eyes. "I know it was you, Andrew," she whispered softly. "I love you, and I'll pray for you."


	8. Chapter 8

James woke to the sun shining on his face. For a brief, amnesiac moment, before the fog of sleep had fully dispersed from his brain, he imagined himself to be in his own bed, and he lazily rolled over, reaching for the other pillow. It had been late when he went to bed, and he wanted to snatch a few more moments of sleep before the day claimed him.

A wild moment of panic seized him as he felt himself free-falling. His eyes shot open just long enough to see the hardwood planks come rushing up to meet him. He somehow managed to raise an arm to protect his face as he crashed unceremoniously to the floor.

"Oh, God," he moaned. This was _not_ the way to begin the day. He struggled to push himself up in the narrow space where he had fallen between the bed and the dresser. He finally managed to get to his knees, and he looked up towards the window. It was a beautiful, cloudless day . . . a perfect day to travel.

There was a knock at his door, and he had only managed to turn his head away from the window when it opened to reveal his hostess, Monica, who immediately smiled upon seeing him.

"It's a lovely day for morning prayers, isn't it?"

James bit back a caustic reply–he was _not_ praying–and then glanced sharply at the woman in his doorway. There had been something in her tone . . .. He could have sworn she was mocking him, but for her smile. He searched her face for a moment longer, and then, with a weary sigh, he cast off his suspicions and rubbed the sleep out of his face. It was too early in the day to think. Besides, he was leaving in a few short hours, if not before, so it really didn't matter to James what this woman thought of him.

Not receiving a response to her question, she held up a steaming mug. "I brought you some coffee. I'll leave it here on the table. Breakfast will be ready in a half-hour." Without waiting for a reply, she set the mug down on the small table near the door, and left, closing the door behind her.

James rose from the floor and staggered into the adjoining bathroom. Alone with his thoughts, and completely awake, James found the silence to be oppressive, and his remembrances to hold omnipotent sway over his mind. He turned on the faucet and splashed the running water on his face. Deep inside, a part of him wanted to be able to wash away the previous days' memories as he had the previous day's dirt. But he could not, and he needed a distraction before his own thoughts drove him mad.

He pulled out some rumpled, albeit clean, clothes from his duffle bag, and hastily threw them on. He took a big gulp of the hot coffee, wincing as it burned his mouth and throat, and left his room, eager for company and conversation that could divert his thoughts from the past days' events.

He headed downstairs, and following the delicious breakfast smells, he found Monica busy at work in the spacious kitchen.

"Good morning," she said, handing him a fresh mug of coffee as he entered.

"Good morning," he replied, taking a careful sip of the hot beverage, mindful of his newly-scalded tongue. "Your coffee is wonderful," he told her.

She favored him with a bright smile. "It _is_ one of my specialties," she admitted. "Are you hungry?"

"Ravenous," he confessed, trying not to gaze _too_ eagerly at the platterful of crisp bacon and stack of pancakes on the sideboard.

Monica laughed lightly and handed him a plate. "Please help yourself. I always make too much."

James needed no further invitation. He filled his plate and proceeded to make short work of his meal.

"That's a terrible thing that happened, don't you think?" Monica asked.

James glanced up at her with confusion in his eyes. It was then that he noticed that Monica had turned on the small television set that was sitting on the counter. Against his will, and with a part of his mind actively protesting, his eyes were drawn to the picture on the television set . . . the picture of the little girl. Not as he saw her that day, but as she was, captured for all eternity in a photograph of delighted laughter and merriment. His appetite fled, he could only sit and stare at the television screen.

"Mr. Gilbert? Are you all right?"

James visibly shook himself from the crushing grip of the picture, and forced down a mouthful of bacon. It suddenly had the taste and texture of cardboard, and he swallowed hard, trying not to gag. "Yes, of course," he said casually, giving Monica the best smile he could muster. "I was just thinking how terrible that must be for that poor child's family." Just saying those words made him feel sick to his stomach, and he quickly swallowed some more coffee to hide his discomfort. Inevitably, as though drawn by some outside force, his eyes shifted back to the television, but instead of seeing the expected picture of the cherubic face that haunted his every moment, he was greeted with the image of the man who had been arrested in his stead for Elsie Marshall's murder. He heard a sudden, quiet intake of breath, and only vaguely realized that it was his. He couldn't help but stare at the screen and fight off an uncanny feeling of _deja vu_. There was _something_ about that man, something that he couldn't quite place.

"Do you recognize him?" Monica asked eagerly, hoping–praying–that he would acknowledge his crime, that he would remember Andrew, so that this whole confusing assignment could just be over!

But her hopes were dashed as James turned away from Andrew's plight, his impassive mask firmly in place.

"No," he said, swallowing the last of his coffee.

Monica did her best to hide her disappointment. "So," she began, changing the subject, "Do you have big plans today, Mr. Gilbert?"

He shook his head. "I'm just moving on," he said absently, his mind still working over that man's image. _Somewhere_ . . . . He had seen him somewhere. He dismissed the reverie and focused his attention on Monica. "I'm grateful for you putting me up for the night, and for the wonderful meals." He reached in his back pocket for his wallet. "I'll settle up with you now, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," she replied. "It's thirty-five dollars."

He paused as he opened his wallet and looked up in surprise. "Is that all?"

She nodded and smiled. "That's all."

James just shrugged and opened his wallet . . . and the blood drained from his face. "I've been robbed!"

"Oh, dear," Monica said. "Is it serious?"

"Yes! All my money is gone–my credit cards–everything!" He looked up at her helplessly. "I can't pay you. What do I do?"

"Wellll," she began, "I could use some help around the place here. It needs a good painting, and there's some repairs that I've been putting off. I just don't have the time to do them and work at the bar as well. I'd be willing to trade room and board for some help."

James considered her offer. Deep in his heart, he knew that running away couldn't make him forget what had happened, and Monica _was_ a good cook. Furthermore, this place was so far removed that he doubted anyone would find him. But it _had_ to be better than drinking himself into a stupor at some nameless motel every night.

He raised an eyebrow and sighed. "Well, I don't like to leave my debts unpaid, so I guess you've got yourself a deal."

Monica's smile was like sunshine after rain. "Wonderful! You can begin today!"

She watched as James agreed and excused himself from the kitchen. Once she was alone, she glanced at the ceiling with a smile. "Thank you," she whispered. She hadn't lost the battle, yet.


	9. Chapter 9

The Sheriff's van pulled up to the prisoner's entrance at the side of the county jail, and the officers got out, and went around to get Andrew.

"Okay, sweet thing," one of them said. "You're home! The boys in there got the word that you were on your way, and they're champin' at the bit to meet you."

The intake process was brutal. Andrew was made to strip, then was subjected to a search he couldn't have even imagined before experiencing it. He was then made to shower, using a harsh disinfectant soap and a kerosene-based shampoo, all the time being watched by two guards.

"Better enjoy this solo shower," one of the guards advised him. "The next shower you take is gonna be with the other boys." He spat near Andrew's feet. "But, a pervert like you - a child-killer - ought to enjoy that."

After the shower, a guard dusted him with de-lousing powder, head to toe, then saw to it he dressed in prison-issue underwear and an orange jumpsuit. Andrew was handed a towel, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, a set of sheets and a blanket, a comb, and re-shackled, then led to his cell.

On his way to the cellblock, Andrew had to walk past a myriad of cells. Most of the inmates were on their feet and at the bars, watching the newcomer pass. Andrew endured numerous wolf whistles and comments that made his cheeks turn scarlet with utter humiliation.

"Hey, sugar!" one rough-voiced inmate shouted, over the whistles and hoots. "Meet me in the shower area tonight, and I'll show ya around!"

"Blondie!" called another, "I'll show you the recreation area!"

"Hey there, sweetheart! Do you kiss on the first date?"

With a shaky breath, Andrew hung his head and proceeded down the aisle. The officer with him seemed content to take his time, and to make him experience all the heckling and taunting.

"Don't think they don't mean EVERY word," the officer said to Andrew, "because, they do!"

One inmate reached out and almost touched Andrew as he passed the cell. "Cherry!" he chortled, "you gonna be MINE tonight?"

The row went wild with laughter, until one inmate called out, "Yo...Barrett. Better not let Wild Bill hear you say that. Word's up that he's laid claim to that cherry."

"Oh, yeah?" Barrett shot back. "Well, we'll see who gets this little girl."

Some of the inmates howled with appreciation of Barrett's show of bravado. Others, however, knowing Wild Bill and his capabilities, chose to remain silent on the matter.

The officer finally stopped before an empty cell, opened it, and motioned Andrew inside. He also entered, removing the cuffs and saying, with a wry grin, "Welcome to County, kid. I hear you're the prayin' kind. Better start some of that prayin' now, if you get my drift, because this stay ain't gonna be no afternoon in the park! These boys don't much take to child-killers...and most of them have been locked in here so long, that a pretty cherry like you is lookin' really fine right now." He walked out of the cell, then turned back to add, "One word of advice... not that you deserve it...best stay clear of Wild Bill Darby. He has a sort of monopoly on breakin' in the new "girls" on the block... and I've got an idea that he's gonna be mighty eager to ask you out on a date."

The cell door closed heavily, and Andrew, still holding his armful of "necessaries", sank down onto the cot and exhaled shakily. His heavy lids closed, his blond lashes brushing his cheeks. "Father," he whispered, so no one outside his cell could hear. "Father...Dear Father God...help me!"

One lone tear eased out from under his thick lashes, and made its way slowly down the side of his face.

*********************

Carla Leigh entered her tidy apartment, turned on the light, double locked her door, and walked to her answering machine to check for messages. The red light was flashing, telling her that a single call awaited her on the machine.

Putting down her briefcase, she shrugged out of her coat, hanging it on the coat rack by the door. She walked back to the answering machine and pushed the "Play" button. A familiar, slightly accented, voice came on:

"Querida mia...this is Mama. I made your favorite -- Mexican lasagna -- for dinner tonight, and I have more than enough for two. Why not come on over and have dinner with me? Give me a call, Nina."

Shaking her head, Carla picked up the receiver and began to dial. Her mother, born in Mexico City, had met her father - a State Superior Court judge, from Maine - when he was in Mexico City on vacation. He had been from an old and dignified Maine family, who had not been entirely pleased with his choice.

But, the two had toughed it out, and had managed to be basically happy with one another, until her father had died of a heart attack, 8 years ago. He had lived long enough to see his only daughter...his only child...graduate from law school - with honors -- and pass the bar in the top 5%.

Selena, her mother, had never quite accepted life without her husband, and clung to her unmarried daughter tenaciously. As a result, Carla felt as though she had no life, outside of her mother and her job.

"Hello...Mamacita? Yes, I just got in. Oh...not too bad. How did your day go? Uh huh...well, I told you to call the doctor and make an appointment...no, Mama, there is no reason to wait and see...that's silly, Mama! Yes...of course I will...you know that. No, not tonight, Mama...I'm just tired, and I'm going to have a cup of tea and some soup, then go on to bed...it's been a long day. No, Mama...I'm not coming down with anything...I'm just tired. Did she? Well, that's nice. You always said that Carman would never find a man to marry her. When's the wedding? Of course...I'll take you shopping next weekend. Mama, I'm really weary and I have to get off now. Yes....yes, Mama...yes, I will...te adoro, Mama...sleep well."

Hanging up the receiver, Carla kicked off her shoes and flopped into her favorite chair. She moaned softly, as she let her head fall back against the soft cushion behind her. The day was over, yet she couldn't get it out of her mind. More to the point, she couldn't get John Doe - whoever he was - out of her mind.

Try as she would, she could not rid herself of the picture of him being led out of the courtroom that morning! Those eyes...that expression...what was it...betrayal? Confusion? Disbelief? A poignant combination of all of the above?

She glanced at her watch. He would now be settled in his cell at the county facility. She truly believed that he had never before seen the inside of a prison - although she had no idea why she believed this. If this were so, a stay at the county prison would be anything but a pleasant experience for a good-looking young man...especially one that was now charged with murdering a child.

Why wouldn't he help her to help him? Was he bent on self-destruction? Was this his own penance for the thing he had done? Or, had he done it? Carla, somehow, just found it hard to believe that the gentle and seemingly sincere person she had spoken to, could be capable of doing what he was now charged with having done.

"Why not?" she argued verbally with herself. "Just because he does a good 'innocent' act? He was found at the scene of the crime holding the murder weapon. He had what has now been identified as the child's blood all over his suit jacket, his hands and his cheek. And yet, I have this stupid doubt...I have this ridiculous feeling that...that he didn't kill that little girl!"

Standing up, Carla went into the kitchen and turned on the teakettle. She tried to busy herself by preparing her tea things, and starting a Lean DeLITE frozen dinner, but her mind kept returning to John Doe. She couldn't escape him, and it was starting to really bother her!

The man, most probably, a cold-blooded killer, for heaven's sake! All the evidence pointed to just that! And yet...

"Well, maybe it isn't so bad that I sort of believe him," Carla reasoned out loud with herself, as she stood under the soothing warm spray of a welcome shower. "You can do better for a client if his words touch you with what you perceive as a possible truth. But, nobody else believes him! Why do I?"

It was while Carla was poking at her tasteless Lean DeLITE with her fork, that she decided she would pay a visit to her client the following day, to begin planning their defense strategy. Maybe a night in the county prison would be enough to make John Doe decide to confide in her. She sighed, putting down her fork and pushing the hardly-touched frozen dinner well away from her.

Carla heard a "meowing" from down at her feet. Reaching down, she scooped up her cat, Isis, and cradled her against the front of her robe. "He's a misdirected man, Isis," she told the cat, "but I just don't feel he's a murderer. Do you think I'm delusional?" Isis "meowed" once again, and jumped silkily through Carla's embrace, landing on velvet paws on the kitchen linoleum.

"Do you want your dinner?" Carla asked, rising from the chair, and retrieving the can of cat seafood dinner from the cupboard. She opened the can and dumped the contents into a bowl, breaking it up with a fork and setting it down on the placemat on the floor. The cat considered the offerings with a look of disdain, and lazily strolled from the room. Carla knew that she would soon return. This was their nightly ritual. Isis would ask for food, then punish Carla for her lateness by feigning disinterest. As soon as Carla left the kitchen area, however, Isis would return.

"Okay," Carla chuckled, "be that way."

She went back to the living room, sat down and turned on the TV. A channel 7 news team was covering the arraignment. Brad Lesher, a Live Action reporter with the station, was standing at the side of the courthouse watching as John Doe was taken from the building to the van.

"And now, we see the prisoner, John Doe, newly arraigned for the murder of eleven year-old Elsie Marshall, being taken, by Sheriff's officers, to the van that is going to convey him to the county prison facility. The trial was not a long one, but evidence was presented by the arresting officers, the forensics expert, a pathologist, and a number of other witnesses for the state...enough evidence to make John Doe have to stand trial for the murder of the child."

As Brad Lesher spoke, Carla's eye was caught by a mother and child off to the side of the TV screen. Obviously, in their haste to edit the story for the 6:00 news, the tape editors had missed them, or decided just to leave them in. As she watched, Carla found she was able to just barely hear the child, pointing to John Doe say emphatically, "That's Andrew, and he's an ANGEL!"

Carla forced a brittle laugh. "Oh, now that's a good one!" Yet, as incredible as it seemed, why did she suddenly have goosebumps popping out all over her forearms?


	10. Chapter 10

"Thank you, Tess," Susan murmured, accepting the proffered cup of tea with a mustered smile.

Tess pulled up a chair to the kitchen table and sat down next to Susan with her own cup of tea. "How are you feeling today?"

"I'm wishing I still had the tranquilizers," she confessed quietly. "It's so much easier to deal with things through a comfortable haze." Shame stained her cheeks, and a smile tugged at her mouth–a self-conscious stretching of her lips that both acknowledged her faults and asked the person upon whom it was bestowed for forbearance. But the smile quickly faded as Susan lowered her eyes from Tess' perceptive gaze.

"Go on, baby," Tess encouraged, sensing there was more that Susan wanted to say.

"It was a . . . good thing," she began slowly, staring into her teacup, "that William threw them away." She looked back up at Tess. "You don't know how often I've wondered how many I would have to take to ensure that I would never wake up again," she finished candidly. Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Tess," she cried softly, "I feel like someone has ripped my heart from my chest and trampled it into the ground."

Wordlessly, Tess drew Susan into an embrace and held her while she wept. Susan seemed to draw strength once again from the angel's arms, and pulled away, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. It was a good sign, Tess noted. Each successive bout of tears was a little shorter than the previous one, a sign that Susan was beginning to cope with the devastating tragedy.

Susan tossed the damp tissue on the table and sighed. "I'm trying to deal with this–God help me, I'm trying–but sometimes–"

Tess reached out and patted her hand. "You're doing just fine!"

"I was so angry last night," she confessed. "Angry at God, angry at that man, angry at the world in general. And I took it all out on William when we were getting ready for bed." She closed her eyes at the memories of the previous night. "I blamed him for Elsie's death–for letting her go out that evening."

"Anger is a very natural part of the grieving process," Tess commented.

Susan sighed. "Well, we've had our share of that stage and then some," she said ruefully. "We said things to each other last night that would curl your ears. But," she continued, "we stayed up until five o'clock this morning working it out, and I think that's a very good sign."

"It is, baby," Tess confirmed.

"We also don't watch television anymore for fear of seeing that man," she told Tess. "We just get our information from the prosecutors involved in the case."

The temptation was overwhelming, and Tess couldn't resist. "Do you know anything about . . . that man?" she asked.

Susan shook her head. "Just that he pleaded 'not guilty,' and has been transferred to the county facilities until the trial begins."

It was Tess' turn to feel her face grow warm. She knew that the Father was taking care of Andrew, and that she and Monica were not to interfere. Her question sprang from her own lack of faith, and she sent up a silent prayer for forgiveness and strength before turning her attention back to her assignment.

"We're doing our best to resume a normal life," Susan continued, "but it's not easy." She swallowed some tea and set the cup back on the saucer. "William has immersed himself in his ministry, and Kevin in his schoolwork. I do the same with my part-time job as music teacher down at the school, but it seems like the harder we try to get back to normal, the worse we feel."

"Well," Tess began, "I have observed something with your family, Susan. You have all grieved the loss of Elsie in your own ways, but none of you have truly grieved her loss together as a family. Until you do this, you won't be able to move forward together into the future."

Susan pondered this for a long moment, and then nodded slowly. "I think you're right," she said. "I think that is exactly what we need to do."

Tess beamed proudly at her. "You're going to be just fine, baby!"

Susan smiled back. "You know, Kevin had just been accepted to Notre Dame on a football scholarship. He hasn't made a big deal of it–Elsie was his biggest fan, and I know he is still hurting so much, but I want to make this special for him. Would you like to help me plan a special dinner for him?"

"I'd love to!" Tess replied.

"Oh, I'm so glad," Susan responded. "I like having you around, Tess. You've been such a help! I don't know what I would have done without you."

"That's what I'm here for," Tess said, "and I'll stay for as long as you need me." Even though the Marshalls were beginning to get their lives back on track, there was still a lot of work for her to do, and she had the feeling that she was especially going to be needed when the trial began.

*****************************

"All right, ladies! Time for showers!" the prison guard, Doug Faber, called to the prisoners."

The automatic doors all swung open, and three armed guards began to walk down the aisle, making sure that all the prisoners had their soap and towels and headed for the showers.

Farber looked into Andrew's cell, and saw him sitting on the end of his bunk, eyes lowered, not moving. "Didn't you hear me, gutter slime? I said it's time to hit the showers! Now strip down, wrap that towel around yourself, pick up your soap, and get moving! Are you trying for a shot at The Hole on your first night here?" Farber demanded, referring to the solitary confinement rooms.

"I had a shower just a few hours ago," Andrew replied softly, looking sideways at the guard.

"That was one thing, this is another. The men shower every night. It's the rules, and there ain't no exceptions...or, could it be your time of month? How totally insensitive of me!" Farber held his hands up in mock dismay. "You got a note from your mommy, Blondie?"

Seeing no way out, Andrew stood up and started to undress. He paused, and cast Farber another look.

"What's the matter, Angel-Mae? You shy with old Doug watching?"

Andrew said nothing.

"Well, you'd better get used to it fast, because privacy is something you leave on the outside, buddy, now peel down and get your backside to the shower. I have a feeling that the boys are missing you, and you don't wanna keep them waiting, do you?"

Farber walked with Andrew down to the showers. Again, he was greeted with whistles and exaggerated kissing sounds.

"Well," Farber said. "Now that everyone is present and accounted for, I'll leave you lads to your showers...Oh, and....just in case anyone of you are wondering...it ain't half bad!" He raised his eyebrows suggestively and left the area, taking the other guards with him.

"Here's a free shower right here," one of the inmates said, indicating a pipe with a showerhead on it, right next to his.

All the other men had stopped showering, and were leering at Andrew.

Andrew slowly looked around, swallowing with difficulty. Surely, this humiliation was not part of God's plan! He tried to think what he might have done, during his job, as caseworker or Angel of Death, to incur God's anger and be worthy of this punishment. No! He would not think that way! God HAD a reason...he HAD a reason...for all of this...for everything. How many times had he told this to a desperate and confused mortal as he worked on a case?

"Right over here, sweetie," the inmate persisted, and then, Andrew saw that the other inmates were moving back...all of them looking at a huge man who was entering the shower area. He was close to 6'5" in height, and had to be at least 270 pounds...all muscle. He traveled with no guard. He ignored the others and went right over to the inmate who had beckoned Andrew.

"You're exceeding your boundaries," the new arrival growled at the now quaking inmate.

"I...I'm sorry, Wild Bill," he stammered. "I was just havin' fun with the cherry!"

Wild Bill sneered, "It ain't your JOB to have fun with the cherries, Livingston!" Here he regarded everyone. "Showers are over, ladies. Get lost."

The more than two-dozen inmates grumbled, but did as Wild Bill instructed, filing out of the shower room, leaving Andrew alone with the giant.

With a look of concern, Wild Bill ventured, "You afraid of me, kid? Heck...no need of that! I'm just what you might call the 'Welcome Wagon' here. It's my job to teach all you new guys the ropes and to make sure you understand the rules." He started towards Andrew, who backed up a good five paces, clutching his towel for dear life.

"You're making this situation harder than it has to be, kid. Now, it'll be a lot easier if the two of us can be friends." He again took a step towards Andrew, who was now backing up rapidly, and continued to do so, until he reached a corner, and felt wet tiles at his back. A breath caught in his throat, and his green eyes filled with total fear and dread. "Heavenly Father, no! Please...spare me this!" he rasped, his voice choked with terror, as the huge Wild Bill keep coming towards him.

Shaking his head, Andrew sank slowly to the floor, his knees up in front of his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around his legs at the shins.

It was Guard Farber who returned to the shower area. "Okay, Bill...that's enough excitement for one night. Can't you see that boy is about to pass out?"

Wild Bill regarded Farber with loathing. "Ain't you got somewhere else to be, Farber?" he hissed.

Farber seemed to be thinking, then replied, "Nope. Shower time is officially over for tonight. Now get back to the cellblock! Pronto!"

Bill backed down, finally. He looked at Andrew, still in near-fetal position in the corner, the spray from at least five showerheads pounding him full force.

"You got lucky, girl," he spat. "But, we all know that anticipation makes it all the sweeter! Dream about that tonight!"

As Wild Bill left the shower area, Andrew's head dropped onto his knees, and he couldn't stop the sobs that wracked his body.

Farber felt a pang of pity, and that was something he almost never felt, as a seasoned guard of twenty-three years, who had seen it all, and way too often.

He walked over to Andrew. "Come on, kid," he grumbled softly. "You ain't hurt. Back to the cell."

Back in his cell, Andrew hurriedly re-dressed and curled up on his cot. He was still shaking, from head to toe, and had never been so miserable. Almost frantically, he tried to remember what it felt like to be in the presence of The Father's light and love. But both his mortal condition and his present situation, made this almost impossible.

Curling up all the tighter, Andrew tried to stop the hot tears from pooling in his eyes, but they came...unbidden. Where was Tess? Where was Monica? He wrapped his arms around his shoulders, rocking slowly, trying to comfort himself...a thing he had never before had to do.

"Alright, ladies!" Farber shouted from the end of one aisle. "Ten minutes to light's out!"

"Hey, Farber!" one of the inmates shouted down the aisle, "you gonna leave the cells open tonight...just so's we can go and pay the cherry a visit...you know...in case he's feelin' lost and lonely?"

There were hoots of appreciation from some of the others, but Farber called out, "You invitin' Bill to this shindig?"

No smart answers came back at him, and, a few moments later, the lights went abruptly off.

Andrew lay alone in the dark, fearing to close his eyes. Yes, the cell doors were tightly closed and locked, but he had no idea what might befall him if he were not on guard over himself.

That night he didn't sleep at all.

***********************

The following morning, three guards, that Andrew had not seen before, came to take the prisoners to breakfast in the dining room. The dining room was an enormous open area, with rows of tables, with their benches attached. Each prisoner picked up his tray, and then took a seat at one of the tables. There were areas of tables for each cellblock, and a guard made certain that Andrew went over to the appropriate one.

That was when Wild Bill arose from a table not far from Andrew's, and, bringing his breakfast tray with him, walked over to where Andrew had just seated himself.

"Is this seat taken?" Wild Bill asked with exaggerated politeness.

Andrew froze. He knew that it would do no good to say it was taken. Bill would sit where he wanted, in any event. All he could do was shake his head once, then continue to stare at his congealing scrambled eggs.

Bill glanced at Andrew's as-yet-untouched tray. "Come on now, you've gotta eat. Gotta keep up your strength, ya know," he leered.

Andrew said nothing in reply, and Bill reached over, picked up Andrew's fork, loaded it with egg and conveyed it to his mouth. "Eat a bite for Wild Bill, honey," he coaxed.

"I...I'm not hungry," Andrew forced himself to reply. His usually resonant, smooth voice sounded strangled and tight.

"Well, Wild Bill can take care of that!"Bill said, and turning, he caught hold of Andrew's jaw, pressing hard on his cheeks, with his thumb and forefinger, until Andrew's mouth was forced open, then shoveled in the forkful of egg.

Andrew gagged, and grabbing his napkin, spit the contents into it.

"What's going on here?" one guard demanded, walking over to the table Andrew shared with Wild Bill.

"I...can't eat," Andrew said. "May I go back to my cell?"

"You're Doe, right?" the guard asked him, and Andrew nodded, wiping his mouth and discarding the napkin. "Well, you have a visitor. Usually, we keep this sort of thing until after breakfast, but this is your attorney. Come on...I'll take you into the visitation room."

Bill looked at Andrew, as he got up from the bench. "Anticipation..." he said flatly, in a way that sent chills through Andrew's entire body.


	11. Chapter 11

Carla was sitting on the opposite side of a Lucite window, watching as the door opened, on the prisoner's side, and Andrew was led in by a guard. The guard made him sit in the chair that was right across the window from where Carla sat, and then put a receiver into his hand. Carla picked up the receiver on her side.

Just looking at her client, Carla could see that he was not the same man she had watched leave the courtroom the day before. His eyes were sunken and ringed with a dusky shade of purple...brought on, no doubt, by a total lack of sleep and stress. There was a nervousness about him, and his green eyes now reflected fear...even an element of terror. Carla silently wondered what all had happened to John Doe the night before, but, somehow, she had an idea. She was well aware of what went on in prisons, especially for the new arrivals, and it was even worse if they were attractive. There would also be the fact that Doe had been arraigned for murdering a child. The inmates would be out to get him...employing "prison justice". From the looks of John Doe, he had not had a good night!

Carla put the receiver to her ear, and motioned to Andrew to do the same.

"How are you?" she asked him, knowing that was a stupid question, but able to think of nothing else to say.

Andrew just looked down, saying nothing.

"John...have you been hurt? You know, they do have a good doctor here, and I can see that he..."

Shaking his head, Andrew replied softly, "No...no. I'm all right."

"They're giving you a hard time," she supplied, again surprised at the compassion she felt when she was around him.

Again, no reply from Andrew.

"Will you PLEASE help me to get you out of here?" she implored, so strongly that the guard glanced over at them. Carla lowered her voice, and continued. ""John, I don't know why, but I just feel there's a chance that maybe you're telling the truth about all of this. If that's the case, then it's one heck of a case of circumstantial evidence...but, if that is what happened, if it is the truth, then you have GOT to tell me everything! No holding back! Starting with your name, job, where you live...all of that!"

He shook his head. "It would only make things worse...believe me."

"WORSE?" she exploded, and the guard moved towards them. "Sorry," Carla apologized, and forced herself back to a semblance of control. "How do you figure things could get any worse than they are for you right now?"

He opened his hands helplessly. "They could. That's all I can say."

"You are in prison, charged with murdering a child. You are surrounded by hardened inmates, who are after your life themselves, and more, I'm sure! You have virtually no defense...tell me, please how it could get any worse than that?"

"You just have to trust me on this," he replied softly.

Carla gave a gasp of frustration. "What is it with you? You're facing the death penalty because of what you've been indicted for! Maybe I can take the information you have and parlay it into at least some kind of defense! But, left as it is...John...I won't be able to do anything for you!"

"It's all in God's hands now, Ms. Leigh."

She signed. "People I defend who get the death penalty are allowed to call me Carla," she told him.

Andrew managed a faint smile. "Carla...maybe...maybe someone will come forward and confess...the one who really killed Elsie," he ventured. "Or, some clue to the real killer might surface. When God is in control, anything is possible."

"Oh boy!" she scoffed. "Again with God!"

"Always with God, Carla," he said firmly. "Always!"

**************************

James stepped down off the last rung of the ladder and mopped the sweat from his brow with an old towel he picked up from the workbench next to the ladder. He'd spent all day up on the roof of the boardinghouse replacing old shingles. It was due to rain tomorrow, so he would soon find out if he had done an adequate job.

He reached for his glass of lemonade and stepped back to survey the house. Monica hadn't been kidding when she said that it needed some work. He'd been doing odd jobs for over two months now, and there was still more work to be done. It seemed as though as soon as he fixed something and headed on to another project, it would break again. He sometimes wondered if Monica were deliberately breaking things just to keep him there, but he'd already dismissed that thought from his mind weeks ago. She worked most of the day at the bar, and was busy in the evenings getting supper for the boarders, leaving her precious little time for anything, least of all sabotage! No, the house was just old, and thing just didn't stay together in old things as well as they did in new. Monica wasn't bringing in enough money from the boarders to afford the massive renovations that were really necessary, so they just had to make do with his best patch-work efforts. He looked back up at the roof. That, he concluded, was a hard day's work well done. He took a deep swig of lemonade and set the glass back on the table, headed inside for his well-deserved shower.

"Roof's all done," he said to Monica as he came in.

Monica turned from the kitchen sink at the sound of James' voice. "That's wonderful!" She exclaimed. "I've just been watching the weather report on television. They said it was going to rain tomorrow." She pointed with her knife at the television before reaching into the sink for a freshly-washed potato. "It's good to know that we won't have to drag out all the pots and pans again."

"Hopefully not," James agreed in a distracted, absent-minded tone.

Monica looked up to see him holding the front page of the morning paper. She had left it out purposely to see if he would notice that Andrew's trial had begun that day. Over the past weeks, he had withdrawn so much into himself that Monica feared she would never reach him. The Father hadn't given her permission to reveal herself, yet, and by this time, she was desperate for any help she could get. As she watched him now, though, his face seemed to reveal some traces of emotion; some indication that all her work over the past weeks hadn't been for naught, that she wasn't just calling out into a whirlwind.

"They're finally starting the trial," she commented, hoping to begin a conversation.

Startled, as though forgetting that he wasn't alone in the room, James jumped slightly at the sound of her voice and tossed the paper back on the table.

"So they are," he said, avoiding her glance. He then turned and left the kitchen, his countenance once more an impenetrable mask of stone.

Monica tossed both her knife and the vegetable back into the sink with a heavy sigh. She reached out to turn off the television, needing some quiet time to commune with God, but her hand stopped scant inches from the power button as she noticed a news fragment was airing live from the courthouse. An unkempt, ragged-looking man in prison orange was being led to a police car, followed by a throng of reporters. Monica felt a surge of pity for the man. How sad it was that these humans made such choices that would lead them to this! She had to wonder just what it was that he had done to bring himself so low, and she said a quick prayer that God would send him an angel to show him the way to the Father's arms.

She turned away, disappointed that she hadn't seen Andrew. She missed him. Aside from the mug shot in the paper, she hadn't seen a thing of Andrew since Elsie died, and she couldn't help but wonder how he was faring. She knew that the Father was taking care of him, and that she was not to interfere, but that didn't stop her from worrying all the same.

Just as she hit the power button, she heard the reporter for the television station called out to the man.

"_Mr. Doe_–"

Monica whirled around and pushed the button again. As the picture returned to the screen–mercilessly slow, she noted–the prisoner looked up for a brief moment before being shoved into the back seat of the police car.

Andrew!

And then, as quickly as she had seen him, he was gone.

She stared at the screen for a long, unbelieving moment. "Oh, Andrew," she murmured, feeling a strong surge of dark emotion. She bowed her head for a moment, and then fell to her knees and looked heavenward.

"Father," she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes, "I've tried to get through to James–You know I have. But it's not working, and I need Your strength to persevere." She paused to wipe away a tear. "And Andrew–seeing him like this is only making me angry with James. Please forgive me. Please help me, Father. I know you are watching over Andrew, but my heart is so full of questions that my faith begins to waver." Her voice began to tremble. "I'm so scared," she confessed.

Almost immediately, she sensed another presence in the room, and she looked over her shoulder to find Tess standing there. With a tearful smile, she rose from her knees and flung herself into her supervisor's arms.

"There, there, Angel-Girl," Tess soothed.

"Oh, Tess," she cried, "I didn't even recognize him!"

"I know, baby," she replied. "I know."

Monica pulled away, noticeably more calm. "Did you go to the trial?" she asked hopefully, for Andrew's sake.

But Tess shook her head. "The Father said no. But I did see him on tv just as you did, right before I was told to come here and encourage you."

Monica's face fell. "Oh, Tess," she said dejectedly, "I feel like such a failure!"

"You are not a failure, Miss Wings," Tess admonished gently. "You have done a fine job here for these past weeks, especially being alone."

"Then why hasn't James made any attempt to come forward with the truth?" Monica asked, the frustration of the past weeks evident in her tone.

"Are you forgetting that it is God who works in the hearts of men?" Tess returned. "You haven't been given the go-ahead to reveal yourself. That should tell you that God is still working in James' heart, and His ways are ever-perfect."

Monica lowered her eyes. "I guess I had forgotten that, hadn't I?"

Tess drew her charge close. "Don't lose heart, Angel-Girl. God is in control, and in the end, things will turn out just as He has planned."

After a brief prayer for forgiveness, Monica rested her head on Tess' shoulder and smiled, feeling infinitely better than she had moments ago.


	12. Chapter 12

James stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and vigorously rubbed his head with another one. He moved over to the sink and picked up his razor. He raised it and leaned forward, but, catching his own eyes looking back at him, he slowly lowered it, and laid it back on the sink.

He stared at the man in the mirror, searching his face for any trace of familiarity, and finding none. In these past months, he had become someone, somewhere else than who he had been. The sad thing was that he couldn't remember who he had been. He turned away from the mirror.

It seemed an eternity ago when he had bought that gun from his friend that fateful evening. It was a good deal, and he'd planned to sell it at a local gun and knife show the following week. He had just been walking home from his friend's house–a mere two blocks down the street from his apartment–when that little girl . . ..

A vivid image of the child he had killed sprung into his mind and he shook his head in a vain attempt to rid himself of it. It was a stupid accident–a stupid, senseless accident that never should have happened.

It did happen, though, and the child was dead. There was nothing he could do about that now. Why, then, should his life be destroyed as well as hers?

But it wasn't just his life at stake, and he knew it. He knew it, and he didn't want to deal with it. Part of him was horrified that he could just sit here while an innocent man stood trial for the child's murder, but he had quickly learned how to section that part of his mind off from the rest of himself. It was only Monica, with her frequent musings on the trial, who was able to call that seemingly lost part of himself back to the surface. And he always acted swiftly when such occurrences happened, pushing that part of himself back, locking it away from the stinging barbs she unknowingly inflicted on his conscience.

Not that it would matter much anyway. After he had started working for Monica, he had called his landlord to cancel his lease, using his security deposit to pay his final month's rent, and then quit his old job at the warehouse. He was a loner as it was, and had been for the past thirty years since his family died in that fire . . . no one would miss him back home. And suddenly that thought, which had never bothered him before, now brought tears to his eyes. He was alone, and no one would miss him if he disappeared from the face of the earth . . . no one would even know.

He moved over to the dresser and opened the top drawer. In recent weeks, Monica had started to pay him for his work, and he was saving every penny of his earnings. Soon, he would have enough to leave–to go somewhere real and start over . . . somewhere, where, someday, he might be missed.

**************************

For Andrew, the weeks before the trial seemed an eternity. He found a surprising, and unlikely, champion in Farber, the prison guard. Actually, Farber was very circumspect in his efforts to protect Andrew from the other prisoners, and he never verbally aligned himself with the new blond inmate. However, he always seemed to be present at shower time, and he was often present when Andrew had to be in the same setting with Wild Bill.

Outwardly, Farber's attitude towards Andrew was no different than it had been on the first day of his arrival...but Andrew had witnessed enough to catch on to the fact that Farber was watching over him, in his own subtle way.

After a few weeks, most of the inmates seemed to lose interest in tormenting Andrew, and went on with their day-to-day existence as prisoners of the county prison facility. Wild Bill, however, had not lost interest, and Andrew knew that, if given the chance, Bill would either kill him, or make him wish he were dead!

It became more and more difficult for Andrew to hang onto his unshakable Faith. The on-going oppressiveness of prison life was denigrating and demoralizing. It whittled away at faith and self esteem, until a dull, throbbing nothingness began to settle in and consume him.

Yet, he made himself pray each day, and kept trying to remember what it was like to be in the presence of God. Each day, however, this became a more difficult task, and his angelic life slowly became no more than a vague dream.

Carla visited him often, and - aside for the time he set aside for prayer -- she was the one bright spot in his life. She brought him books, magazines, and anything else she could legally get in to him, to make his life more bearable. But, even Carla's kindness could not drive away the darkness and devastation that was invading Andrew's life...and soul.

*****************************

The first day of the trial was sunny and chilly. Andrew was conveyed to the courthouse, right after breakfast. Carla was waiting for him at the table for the defense, and her greeting smile was a welcome sight.

Carla shuddered inside as she looked at Andrew. The weeks had certainly taken their toll on him. His handsome face now showed a gauntness it had not possessed before his incarceration. The suit she had bought for him to wear at the trial - to his size specifications - hung loosely on his frame, as though it was at least a size too large for him.

But, Carla realized, a hard pain knotting in her stomach, the biggest change was in his features...especially his eyes. They now held a dull haunted look...a look that tore at her heart. With every fiber of her being, Carla wished that she could drive that look from his eyes, and replace it with the peace and hope she had seen in them the first day they had met.

Still, She thought, there remained a tiny glimmer behind the almost total dullness of his eyes. It was barely noticeable, yet... it was, indeed, there. It was as though, no matter how much he had endured, he had managed, somehow, to hang tenaciously onto a shred of what she now knew was his life-support system...his Faith!

"Are you ready?" Carla asked him.

He shrugged. "There is nothing I can do to be 'ready'," he told her. "I'm completely in God's hands, as always. He knows my situation. He knows my innocence. His will, in all things, be done."

Carla shook her head. "John, after all of this...after all you've been through...after all that's happened, how can you sill believe that?" she implored, this time really wanting to know.

"God is not a man to lie, Carla. He has given us His word that He will never leave us, or forsake us. He told us to fear not the terror by night or the arrow that flies by day, and that He will be with us until all things pass away." He attempted another smile. "With promises like those, how can any of us not believe?"

"But, John...look how He has let you suffer!" Carla protested. "Would a kind and loving God allow a Believer to be treated as you've been treated? And will you still believe when they pass the death sentence on you?"

Andrew's eyes met hers, and, for that instant, they burned with the same fire they had held the day they had met. "Until I have breathed my last breath in this mortal body," he said emphatically, and Carla felt an involuntary shiver pass through her.

It was at that moment, that Andrew looked over his shoulder, to the visitors' seats. He watched a family file into the front row, each taking a seat. The wife looked on the verge of collapse, and leaned heavily on the arm of her husband...at least, Andrew assumed the sober looking male at her side to be her husband.

Sitting with them was a young man, trying bravely to keep up a strong façade.

The woman took a tissue from her purse, dabbing her red-rimmed eyes. As she did so, she looked in Andrew's direction, and, for an instant, her gaze locked with his.

Immediately, her arm gripped her husband's, and her entire body tensed visibly. Andrew knew, at once, that this was Elsie's mother, and, with that one chilling glance, all of her pain, torment, and hatred were conveyed to him, with a vividness that hit Andrew like a body blow.

He was not proof against her maternal righteous indignation. Eyes filled with pain for her pain, and a deep understanding of her torment, Andrew slowly turned his head away.

"That's the family of the murdered child," Carla told him, aware that he had located them in the observer's section.

"I know," he replied softly, and said no more.

**************************

The process of selecting a jury began. The prosecuting counselor, from the District Attorney's office - Brent Summers -- had first crack at the first potential juror, and he turned the man down, almost immediately, for reasons known only to himself.

This was a long and involved process, and took two days, as Carla and Brent vied to fill the jury box with people they hoped would be sympathetic to their sides.

As the process progressed, Andrew couldn't help but look back at the Marshalls, from time to time. Seeing their obvious misery caused him even greater pain, and he wished, with all his heart, that he could go to them and offer comfort, and make them believe that he had nothing to do with their daughter's death. But, without God's gentle intervention, he knew this was impossible. He had seen how they looked at him - all three of them - and he knew that the one thing they didn't want was hear his words of compassion. The only words they wanted to hear were the judge's...when she sentenced him to die.

*************************

Meanwhile, things in the prison took a turn for the worse. Farber had to have microsurgery on his knee, and was out for a number of days. Since no other guard cared what happened to Andrew, he was on his own when it came to protecting himself against the other inmates...and Wild Bill!

Andrew, however, had even more difficult issues to deal with. Every day that passed, he felt more removed from the Father. Everything seemed to be unraveling before his eyes, and yet, he didn't feel God's love or presence anywhere around him.

He also didn't understand why Tess and Monica hadn't come to help him. He was utterly alone, and this aloneness was tearing away at his faith and leaving him on the edge. Although he still made time for prayer, more and more Andrew was beginning to feel that his words were being spoken into dead air.

All this came to a head one night in the shower, when Wild Bill - knowing that Andrew's guard-protector, Farber, was not around - decided it was time to make his move again. The others had been needling him about his inability to get what he wanted from Andrew, and this was starting to really annoy the big man. He had a reputation to maintain, and Farber had been interfering with that...making him look bad with the men.

Waiting for shower time, Bill stood quietly under the spray until he saw Andrew's cellblock enter the area. Bill had announced to the others that, "tonight is the night", and everyone was anticipating the event. Aside from being terrified of what would befall them if they didn't show support for Wild Bill, they all resented Andrew for being a "kid killer", and wanted to see him "get his".

Andrew was lathering his chest, when Bill approached him silently, from behind. "I believe this dance is mine," Bill said, tapping Andrew lightly on the shoulder.

Andrew whirled around, seeing the huge man reaching for him. Bill's immense hands grabbed Andrew's shoulders, turning him back around, and bringing him against himself.

It was at that moment, that everything Andrew had been experiencing...all the frustration, the anger, the devastation, the aloneness, his mortality, and separation from God, boiled up inside of him, and erupted.

His eyes took on an almost maniacal gleam, and with one movement, Andrew sent his elbow smashing back into Wild Bill's rib cage. Bill, caught totally off guard, reeled from the almost superhuman force of the blow, and fell back a few steps, letting Andrew loose.

Andrew stood regarding the big man, hair falling in his eyes, and teeth clenched. "Get your hands off of me, you sonofa..." Andrew's expletive was lost in the shouts now coming from the other inmates. There was going to be a fight! This child-killer was actually stupid enough to take on Wild Bill!

Before Bill could regain his composure or recover from the initial shock, Andrew charged him, making hard contact with his shoulder, and knocking Bill onto the cement floor.

Bill began to stagger to his feet, but Andrew, eyes wild with unbridled hatred and fury, began to take him apart with his fists, each blow landing so fast and so hard, that Bill didn't have a chance to even start defending himself.

The other inmates, who had formed a circle around the two, were shouting encouragement, trying to keep the fight going. It was obvious, however, that Andrew needed no encouragement!

Bill, finally, was able to get firmly to his feet, but Andrew, without hesitation, flung himself at him, slamming the giant back against the tile wall. Putting one hand at Bill's throat, Andrew got up into his face. Bill, now visibly afraid of the unexpected strength of his attacker, gazed at Andrew in wide-eyed disbelief.

"Listen up, Billy boy," Andrew hissed, breathing heavily and rapidly from the exertion. "If you try and put your freakin' hands on me one more time...just one more..."

"Hey!" this from one of two guards running into the steamy shower area, guns and batons at the ready. "What the hell is going on here?" They pushed their way into the center of the ring of inmates, reaching Andrew and Wild Bill.

"My Lord!" the other guard gasped. "The kid's got Wild Bill!"

Without another word, the guards pulled Andrew away from Bill, yanking his arms behind his back. "Take him to The Hole," the first guard ordered, and Andrew was dragged away, while the incredulous inmates watched - in a state of shock. They could hardly believe what they had just witnessed. No one had ever gotten the best of Wild Bill in a fight...not ever! No one had been foolish enough to even try!

The remaining guard said, "Okay, ladies...break it up! Fun's over." He looked at Wild Bill, whose nose was bleeding from both nostrils and who seemed dazed and bewildered. "Better get you to the infirmary," the guard remarked. "Never thought I'd see the day," he added.

Bill was finally coming around. Spitting out a tooth, along with some blood, he surveyed the faces of his fellow inmates, and saw smirks and amusement. "What the hell are you pansies lookin' at?" he challenged.

"The cherry whipped your a s s," one inmate replied boldly. "Man, did he ever!"

The others made noises of agreement.

Bill exploded, "Well, he'd best enjoy his moment of victory...because he's goin' down for this...!"

"Come on, Bill," the guard said. "You're seeing the doctor."

"He's goin' down!" Bill, his face scarlet, bellowed, as the guard led him away from the showers, and the others watched him leave.

*************************

Andrew was taken to solitary confinement, and locked in a tiny cell, with no bed... nothing...except a sink that had, most likely, never been washed. Still breathing hard, he sank to the floor, his head thrown back.

What had he done? In a daze, Andrew brought his shaking hands slowly up before his face, turning them over once, and a second time. The knuckles were bruised and bleeding, the skin having been broken during the pummeling he had given Wild Bill. But, along with this damage, Andrew knew that a good portion of the blood on his hands belonged to Bill.

He began to remember the episode in the shower, wincing as it replayed in his mind. For the first time, he had struck a human being. He had beaten him, like some out- of-control maniac, causing harm.

"Oh, dear Father!" he gasped. "What have I done?" But, at the same time, he knew very well knew what he had done, and the knowledge sickened him.

With a moan of anguish, Andrew covered his face with his blood-smeared hands, slowly letting them slide down his cheeks, leaving a red trail on his fair skin. "Father...Father, forgive me," he implored frantically. "How could I - one who's been an angel and dwelled in the presence of your Divine Love - have raised my hands to anyone, no matter what was happening to me?"

Andrew knew that he had been teetering on the brink of his self-control for a while, and that his feelings of a lack of connection with God and with his fellow angels, had caused a desperation and hopelessness he had never before known. He also knew that, in mortal form, he was heir to the weaknesses of flesh and character that all mortals possessed. Bill had intended to harm and defile him. His plight had made him vulnerable, and he had defended himself vigorously. Yet, taking all of that into consideration, Andrew knew there was no excuse for what he had done.

The scariest part, however, was wondering what would have happened had the guard not stopped him! He had been conscious of the hatred he had felt as he attacked Bill. Could he have possibly killed the man, if there had been no intervention?

"Father...I deserve to die," he whispered. "I knew the warmth of your Perfect Love and tolerance, and yet, I put that aside and struck out in hatred and in anger. I do not deserve to be saved from this ultimate fate I am entering into. You must have known this all along. I deserve to die... in this miserable mortal shell...without your love, without your forgiveness. I offer no excuses. As an angel...at least, when I was an angel...I knew better, and that knowledge should have carried through...even in this human state!" Tears coursed copiously down his cheeks, streaking the bloody smears they ran through. "Father," he sobbed brokenly, "In all things, Thy will be done."


	13. Chapter 13

With a snarl of disgust, Tess practically threw the newspaper into the trash can, dangerously angered by how the media was portraying Andrew, especially now that the trial had begun. She knew that if she didn't rid herself of these feelings that there was a very good chance that she might be pulled from this assignment, as she had been with Timmy, years prior. She forced herself to remember that God was in control of everything that occurred. That did not prevent her, however, from breathing a quick prayer for strength, and she glanced heavenward, wondering once more what the purpose of the past months could be, and, as usual, failing to understand. Knowing that God would reveal to her what she needed to know, when she needed to know it, Tess turned her attention back to her assignment. The Marshalls were, at the moment, absent, having left a few hours ago for the courthouse to attend the first day of the trial.

A shadow of anguish crossed her face for a brief moment when she thought of Andrew . . . alone, facing human justice with no support to speak of, for surely, Tess reasoned, his court-appointed counsel wouldn't take much interest in his case given the circumstantial evidence mounted against him. The fact that he had pleaded not guilty–and refused to reveal any personal information–was only serving to harm him further, if the papers and news reports could be trusted. Of course, Tess knew that if Andrew did reveal who he truly was–that is, if he could even remember (and Tess feared that more than anything else)–he would be considered mentally incompetent and sent to a psychiatric ward. Given the horrors of human prisons, though, Tess was beginning to think that the ward would be a better place for her friend.

With a sigh, Tess thought back to the moment when she had first learned of the trial date. She hadn't even gotten her request properly formed in her mind before the Father stalwartly refused her plea to attend. She had thought that if Andrew could only see that he was not alone, that he had not been abandoned . . .. But "no" was "no," and that's all there was to that.

Knowing that she could not change the situation, Tess put her concerns aside and began to prepare dinner for the Marshalls, her culinary creativity straining to be released. She smiled to herself at the memory of her _last_ assignment that had involved cooking, barely six months ago. Poor Andrew–she would never forget the look on his face when he was cornered and auctioned off like a prize cow. In spite of her present concern for her beloved Angel of Death, Tess chuckled at the mental picture her memories provided. She had never seen him look so helpless–until–

The smile faded as her memories bestowed upon her the picture of Andrew in the back seat of the police car, Elsie's little body still sprawled on the sidewalk. As she reached for a frying pan, she found herself fighting back frustration and anger once more, and once more needing the Father's strength. She would be glad when the Marshalls returned–being alone with her thoughts right now was becoming too difficult a burden to bear.

As if on some divine cue, the front door opened at that moment, and William, Susan, and Kevin entered in as somberly as death. Tess caught Susan's eye first, and threw her a questioning glance.

"We couldn't stay," she replied simply.

Without a word, but with tears in his eyes, Kevin stumbled up the stairs to his room.

"What happened?" Tess asked, taking off her apron and moving into the living room.

"I couldn't bear to be in the same room as Elsie's killer," Susan confessed in a whisper. "All the hate and rage I feel came boiling to the surface when I saw him. I wanted to kill him, Tess," she said, a haunted look buried in her eyes. "If he had been any closer to me–" She broke off as William gently laid his hand on hers.

"It wasn't just Susan, Tess. Kevin was in tears and I—I needed to get out of there before I hurt my reputation–and God's."

William looked away, silenced by the grip of his shame. He had sworn that he wouldn't let the sight of that man get to him, but all of his determination flew merrily out the window as soon as that man had turned to look at him and his family. He had tried to keep silent–had tried so hard that he was squirming in his seat with the effort to control himself. He was doing fine until Elsie's killer had turned around a second time to look at them.

He had lost it then. Without even realizing it, he found himself on his feet, sobbing, all of his pain and hate pouring itself out in words so vile, William flushed with shame at the remembrance of them. And through the whole tirade, Elsie's killer had sat motionless, allowing William his words, almost as if he understood the need to release pent-up anger. Only when William had called him a "son of a bitch" did he flinch–once and painfully. But he had quickly resumed his composure and, with the rest of the court, waited out William's tirade.

No sooner had he finished, and realized what he had just done, then he packed up his family and left the courtroom, with no intention of returning.

William sighed heavily and bowed his head, resting his forehead against his steepled fingers. The damage to his reputation as a pastor, and to the One he served, was probably beyond reckoning. But it had felt _good_ to give himself over to such release, and part of him would never be sorry.

"You just hang in there, baby," Tess soothed, knowing by divine revelation what had happened in the courtroom, but also knowing that William was tearing himself up enough over it that her chiding would only serve to make things worse.

Sensing that they wanted to be alone, Tess returned to the kitchen and began preparing dinner. Once more, she sent up a silent prayer–for the Marshalls, and for Andrew. Only God knew when this whole terrible mess would be over.

*************************

The trial, as expected, was not a long one. The State had a string of technical witnesses, the county coroner, a ballistics expert, a psychiatrist who had evaluated Andrew's mental state, and, of course, Sergeant O'Neil and the other two arresting officers were among them. Carla did a noble job of cross-examination after each testimony, but there was virtually nothing she could do to break the ironclad case of physical evidence the State presented.

Andrew just sat in silence as the State marched its string of witnesses up to the bench to testify. He wracked his brain to try and remember the details of what had happened that night Elsie was killed, but nothing was coming to him. All he knew for sure, was that he had no part in Elsie's death, and that he had obviously been there to take the child Home.

Carla wrestled with whether or not she should put John on the stand, in his own defense. On one hand, she thought that hearing John, the jury would, perhaps, come to see in him what she, herself, now saw and that this would put some doubt in their minds as to his guilt. All of the evidence provided by the State, was still circumstantial. Perhaps, if she could reach the juror's emotions...

On the other hand, the chief prosecutor was a merciless cross-examiner, who would probably take the gentle John Doe apart after no more than two minutes on the stand.

It was during a break that she posed the prospect to Andrew of taking the stand in his own defense.

"Do you think it would help?" he asked dispiritedly.

Carla shook her head. "John ...it's a calculated risk. Maybe, just maybe, you could reach the jury and let them see the real character of the man they are being asked to convict." She paused, then finished. "On the other hand...Brent Summers is brutal. He would probably take you apart like a watch, and then leave you hanging there, worse off than when you started. It could go either way, John. I'm leaving it up to you. Normally, I'd never let a client, on trial for his life, take the stand, but, I feel I owe you a say in this."

Andrew regarded Carla sadly. "I know I haven't been any help to you at all in building my defense," he said. "There are things I wish I could share with you...but, they wouldn't help you and they wouldn't help me right now, either. It would merely confuse matters."

Carla took his hands in hers. "John...can't you let me be the one to decide that?" she implored urgently. "Maybe I could take that information and use it in ways you can't imagine, not being a lawyer."

He gave her a gentle smile. "You're going to have to just take my word on this, Carla. It wouldn't help for you to have this particular information."

"John," she pressed, "please! If you have anything that I can use...anything!"

"I'll take the stand, Carla...if you think we may have a shot at giving the jury that reasonable doubt," Andrew replied. "That's the best I can do. Maybe, one day, you'll understand."

Carla's voice quivered with pent-up emotion. "When, John? When will I understand? When you're dead?" She was immediately sorry, and squeezed his hands. "I...forgive me...I didn't mean that. I just...feel so frustrated...so helpless!"

Andrew bent and placed a soft kiss on the knuckles of each of her hands. "I promise you, Carla...one day you will understand." He said.

She nodded, and said nothing.

"So...do I take the stand?" he queried, trying to brighten the tone of his voice, for her benefit.

Carla took in a deep breath then exhaled. "No. I think you'd better not. You admit that there are holes in your memory about that night. Summers would find that out in a second, and would use it against you. No...best to leave things as they are...as miserable as that might be. It would kill me to watch him take your words and turn them against you."

Andrew grinned slightly. "Why, Counselor...you aren't the hardened legal representative you make yourself out to be," he teased gently.

Carla just forced a smile, all the while trying to stay strong for her client...for John Doe.

**********************

Time soon came for the closing arguments. Brent Summers presented a real stem-winder, parading all the physical evidence, given by his bevy of professional witnesses, before the jury, yet again.

He paced slowly before the jury box, holding onto the lapels of his expensive three-piece suit. "You have the evidence, good people. You have heard the testimony of a number of the State's professional witnesses, attesting, under oath, to the fact that the defendant had the victim's blood all over his suit at the time of his arrest, that he was at the scene of the crime, and holding the murder weapon in his hand. You know that the defendant," here Summer turned to point at Andrew, "has refused to provide this court with his name, or any information about himself, refusing to cooperate in any with this legal process or with the State.

"I submit to you, that the physical evidence speaks for itself! John Doe is guilty, of the cold-blooded murder of the child, Elsie Marshall, in cold blood! What else is there left to do, but to find him guilty of this heinous crime and sentence him to the full penalty the law of this state allows...death by lethal injection!" Summer looked at each member of the jury, then turned dramatically to the judge. "The State rests, Your Honor," he finished, taking his seat.

"The Counsel for the Defense may now give her closing remarks. Ms. Leigh?" the judge directed, and Carla slowly rose, and walked over to the jury.

"Your Honor, members of the jury... The Counsel for the Prosecution has just presented you a case, based entirely on circumstantial evidence, and actually has the audacity to believe that you will convict the Defendant, John Doe, on the strength of that evidence. Now, granted, the physical evidence is damning. My client had the blood of Elsie Marshall on his clothing, he held the murder weapon, and he was found at the murder scene, standing over the slain child. But, in a murder trial, when a human being's life is at stake, you, the jurors, are asked to find him guilty, BEYOND a reasonable doubt. That, very simply, means that there has to be no modicum of doubt in your minds, and I contend, ladies and gentlemen, that this is just not possible with merely circumstantial evidence...no matter how conclusive or damning it may be!

"Allow me use a true event, from my own childhood, to illustrate this concept. When I was four, my cousin Alicia, from Utah, came to stay for the summer. She was a year older than I, and we did not get along very well. She was forever trying to get me in trouble with my parents, and often succeeded.

"One afternoon, my mother baked chocolate brownies for the school bake sale. She admonished us not to touch the brownies, that they were for the bake sale, and that she would make us some another time. Well, Alicia and I were playing outside, when she stood up and announced that she was going to get some of those brownies. I tried to talk her out of it. I knew my mother meant business, when she told us that we had to stay out of the brownies, and I would never dream of disobeying her so blatantly.

"Alicia went into the house, saw that my mother was in the front yard weeding the flowerbeds, took the plate of brownies, and brought it outside. I couldn't believe what she had done, but she assured me that my mother had told her that these brownies were ours...she was baking more for the bake sale, feeling that these were not really good enough.

"Alicia confidently began to eat a brownie, and, seeing her confidence, how could I doubt but that the story was true? Would she have been foolish enough to eat the brownies if my mother hadn't given her permission? So, I, too, began to eat the brownies. Alicia was much neater than I, being a year older, and I managed to get chocolate smeared all over my face, hands and the front of my T-shirt.

"After we had almost emptied the plate, Alicia suggest that, since she had gotten the brownies, I should be the one to return the plate to the table. I thought this reasonable, and went into the house and set the nearly bare plate back where my mother had put it originally. It was at that moment that my mother came into the kitchen. There I stood, bold as brass, my hands still on the plate, my mouth ringed with chocolate.

"Alicia, of course, denied having anything to do with the brownie incident. When asked, she contended that she had been outside, and I had declared that I was going to have a brownie, went into the house, and she hadn't seen me since. Her immaculate face and clothing gave credence to her lie. I, however, had been caught at the scene, with my hands and face and clothing covered in chocolate. To my angry mother, this was enough evidence to convict me. I was punished, and I had not been the culprit...merely a victim of her lies.

"Now, while this is a very simplistic example of how easily someone can be convicted on circumstantial evidence, is it so difficult to imagine that the same thing happened to John Doe? I do not mean to belittle the horrific death of a child, by comparing it to the taking of brownies, but let us examine how this might have happened to John Doe that night of the murder.

"Walking along the street, John Doe spies something lying on the sidewalk. Rushing over to the body, he sees that it is that of a young girl. Stunned, he kneels down, and gathers the child's body in his arms, taking her against himself, causing his clothing to come in contact with her fresh wounds. Had he been the killer, would he have made that kind of direct contact with the body, chancing that he would, indeed, get some of her blood on his own clothing? I believe he would not!

"Finding the child to be dead, John Doe carefully set the body back on the pavement, possible trying to decide what to do next, and spied the gun, lying in a puddle of the girl's own blood. In his confusion, he picks up the murder weapon, glancing at it in horror and disbelief. When the police pull up, he is holding the weapon, the child's blood now also on his hands.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury...does not common sense tell you that if John Doe HAD murdered Elsie Marshall, he would not have stayed around, holding first the child and then the murder weapon, until the police arrived?

"I submit that John Doe was an innocent by-passer, who became entangled in this terrible homicide, simply because he stopped to see if he could help Elsie Marshall. The counsel for the prosecution has yet to provide one shred of eyewitness testimony that John Doe pulled the trigger, firing the gun that killed Elsie Marshall. If nothing else, ladies and gentlemen, I would think that this fact alone would provide you with considerably more than just a small reasonable doubt! And, the law dictates that a person cannot be convicted if that reasonable doubt exists...in any degree!

"I ask you all to do as the law of this great nation admonishes, and give this innocent man back his freedom! Please...let justice be served!"

*********************

The judge instructed the jury, and they retired to make their deliberation. Andrew and Carla were instructed to meet in the prisoner's break room. They had it all to themselves.

"You were extraordinary," Andrew told Carla, as they sat across the one large table from each other. "No one could have done a better job."

She sighed. "I gave it my best shot. Now, we just have to wait and see if that was enough."

He captured her gaze with his, holding it as he asked, "You don't think it will be, do you?"

"John, I can't say. I long ago gave up trying to "read" a jury."

"How long do you think they'll be out?" he queried.

Shrugging, Carla said, "The longer the better. That would mean that they might be taking my words to heart."

The jury was out for just over an hour. Andrew watched them as they filed silently back into the juror's box, and took their seats. The foreman handed a slip of paper to the bailiff, and he, in turn, handed it to the judge. She read the contents, and said, "Will the defendant please rise and face the jury."

Carla rose with Andrew, squaring her shoulders as she faced the jurors along with her client.

"The foreman will please read the verdict," the judge instructed, and the foreman, a middle-aged man, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a wrinkled suit, rose and read from a piece of paper:

"In the matter of John Doe vs. The State of Maine, in the death of the child, Elsie Marshall, we, the jury, find the defendant, John Doe, guilty of murder in the First Degree."

Immediately, there was a clamor in the courtroom. The judge banged her gavel on the bench, and finally, everyone calmed down.

Carla fell heavily into her seat, and felt momentarily light-headed. Andrew reached over and took her hand.

"The defendant, have been found guilty of murder, in the First Degree, shall be remanded to the county jail, until sentencing, one week from today. Court is adjourned."

The guards began to come for Andrew, but Carla stopped them. "I need to speak to my client. We are going to the break room." One guard said, "We have to shackle and cuff him, ma'am. It's the law."

Regarding the guard icily, Carla said, "I am a Counselor of this court, and there-by will be responsible for the behavior of my client. You may wait for him outside the break room. And, no need to fear, gentlemen, there are barred windows." She looked at Andrew. "John...come with me," she coaxed gently and he got up, following her to the break room, the two armed guards close in their wake.

Once in the room, Carla closed the door and turned to face Andrew. "I'm filing an appeal immediately!" she said, with fierce resolve. "The case for the State was built on purely circumstantial evidence. All we need to do is to get another jury who will listen to us! Now, I won't say this isn't a disappointment, but it doesn't have to be the final word. We have many forms of recourse, and I..."

Andrew went to her, putting his long-fingered hands gently on her shoulders. "Carla...it's all right," he soothed. "Everything happens as it does for a reason. There is a reason for this...it is all part of a Greater Plan!"

Hot tears stung Carla's eyes. "There was a total miscarriage of justice in there today! I know that the system is not perfect, but this was a travesty! Justice was not only ill-served, she was violated!" Rubbing her eyes swiftly, with the back of one hand, Carla looked up at Andrew. "I thought that they might see reason, John. I...I really thought that they might. Some say Justice is blind...I say that she was totally incapacitated today! But, when I file that appeal, it will buy us more time. We will continue to look for a witness...maybe the real killer will come forward! But, we will have time on our side. Please, John, say that you will fight with me!"

Nodding, Andrew managed a semblance of a smile. "Of course I will."

"All you have to do it hang on!" she added emotionally.

"I know," he answered, wondering how that was going to be possible. He was no longer going to be in the protection of solitary confinement when he was returned to prison. He knew that Wild Bill must be planning some kind of revenge.

There was a knock on the door. "Ma'am...we have to take the prisoner now," one of the guards called in to Carla. Her eyes flew up to meet Andrew's once again, and he saw fear in them.

"John...promise me that you'll take care of yourself in there. I got the report about the trouble you had with that Wild Bill character. I hear he's dangerous. Please, John...stay away from him!" she implored.

The guards opened the door, went over to Andrew and began to cuff and shackle him. Once they were done, and ready to take him back to prison, Carla stopped them again. She went up to Andrew, stood on tiptoe and tenderly placed a kiss on his gaunt cheek. "We can win this!" she whispered.

The guards began to take him away.

"John! God go with you!" she hastened, and looking back over his shoulder, she saw him smile as he disappeared around a corner.


	14. Chapter 14

Since the night Andrew had taken on Wild Bill, and gotten the better of him, Bill had been bent on revenge. The other inmates had not stopped teasing him about the beating he had taken at the hands of the "cherry", and Bill knew that the only way to shut them up, was for him to return the favor to the" newbie" punk.

The revenge, he knew, had to be carefully planned. He also needed a weapon, and that took time, although it was not impossible. Carefully, cunningly, he set his plans in motion, being certain not to brag to any of the other prisoners, so as not to bring suspicion from the guards, should anyone decide to "rat him out".

Although he knew that John Doe was out of solitary, he didn't attempt to have any contact with him, or show any overt hostility. If the revenge was to work, he had to lay low, and bide his time. This was not easy for the volatile Wild Bill, but he forced himself to keep his cool and bite his tongue. Time, he knew, was on his side.

*************************

_The fire was raging all around him. James could hear the screams of the others in the house, but thick black smoke choked his lungs and forced him to turn away from them. He fled his two-story home as fast as his ten-year-old legs could carry him. He staggered out into the pre-dawn morning, the dew on the grass soaking his stockinged feet. He stumbled and fell, gasping for air that was not adulterated with noxious fumes, coughing so hard his chest hurt._

_He could hear the sirens in the distance . . . and the screams a few yards away. He struggled to his knees and turned his face back to the inferno. He could see blazing forms moving among the flames, and he struggled to rise, to move towards his family._

_Firm hands held him back . . .. He hadn't even realized that he wasn't alone. He strove against the hands, and let out a frustrated sob when he could not free himself._

"_Let me go!" he cried. "I have to go back!"_

"_It's too late, son," a voice belonging to the hands told him._

_Hot tears blurred his vision, and he blinked them away. He looked up at the second story window . . . his younger sister's window. The blazing forms had fallen, and the screams were quieting._

_And there was a man standing in his sister's room, looking down at James with the most sorrowful eyes he had ever seen. James blinked a couple times, convinced that he was hallucinating, but the man did not vanish. He stood at the heat-shattered window, his gray suit and long blond hair haloed and untouched by the fire. They locked eyes for a long moment, and then, as the last pitiful cry was heard from the upper floor, the man turned and, walking into the inferno, disappeared . . .._

James gasped in terror and bolted upright in his bed, still trembling from the intensity of the nightmare, its images still vivid before his eyes. His breath came in ragged starts, and he felt the emotions of his dream threaten to consume his waking mind as they had his sleeping one. With deliberate intent, he forced himself into a calmer frame of mind and body; forced the child's fears and pain away before it could take conscious root in the man.

Still, for all his efforts, he drew his knees to his chest and bowed his head in the darkness as a frightened tear escaped its prison walls. He hadn't dreamt of the fire in years. In fact, after his childhood he had done his best to forget about it–and had succeeded, except for the occasional bad dream that would remind him of those who had left him–as he, in turn, had left them–behind. The dream came to him sporadically over the years, almost as though his family had sent it just to ensure that he not forget them. And every time, it was the same–every time. Except tonight—

Tonight. Tonight it was different. Tonight, for the first time, he saw the face of the man in the window. His memories had always told him that someone was there in that upper room, but he had expended so much time and energy to forget those memories that they were now cloudy and untrustworthy. But tonight–tonight he saw his face . . . the face of the man accused of that little girl's murder.

_Falsely accused,_ his mind corrected before he could stop the thought.

James shook his head weakly in the darkness of his room, trying to negate the past months' worth of memories. That that man would haunt his dreams was bad enough—but to do so in that particular nightmare was almost more than he could bear. He lay back down, both hoping for and fearing sleep.

***************************

A week passed, and the sentencing portion of the trial began. Once again, Andrew found himself seated alongside Carla at the defendant's table.

Each of the counselors was allowed to make a plea before the jury for sentencing. Summer, of course, asked for the death penalty, while Carla pleaded impressively for a life sentence.

"Before I make my decision," the judge said, "I am going to allow the family of Elsie Marshall to face John Doe, the man convicted of murdering their child and sister, and speak their minds." She turned to look at Andrew. "As you know, Mr. Doe, the trial was too difficult for them to bear, but they have chosen to come today to speak directly to you, as is their right." She looked at William, Susan and Kevin. "Is one member of the family going to speak for you all, or would you each like to have a say?"

William looked to his wife and son. They had already decided this days earlier, but he wanted to be certain Susan and Kevin hadn't changed their minds. Through teary eyes, they both nodded, and William turned his gaze back to the judge. "I will be the only one speaking, Your Honor."

"Please proceed, Mr. Marshall," the judge said.

With a deep breath, William rose and went to the podium standing near the bench. This was, undoubtedly, one of the hardest moments he had ever had to face in his life. He looked over at the defense, and was slightly surprised to find that Elsie's killer met his eyes squarely. With a silent prayer for strength, William began.

"I came here today to apologize to you, Mr. Doe."

A murmur of outrageous surprise rippled throughout the courtroom until the judge shattered the whispers with her gavel.

"There will be order in the court," she announced, and then turned to look at William. "Although, I must admit, I am as surprised as everyone else to hear your words. You may continue."

William nodded his understanding. "I know that no one came here expecting to hear me apologize, Your Honor." In fact, it was not what he himself had expected when he first planned his speech. Truth be told, he had wrestled with himself and with God over this matter for many long hours. He hated what he was going to say, but he knew that it was right and necessary that he do so. He focused his attention back on Andrew. "But the last time I was in this court, I said some things that caused some damage. You see, Mr. Doe, I am a pastor, and like it or not, everything I say and do is held to a special scrutiny by those around me. I am, by definition, a reflection of God, and my earlier words to you cast Him in a very poor light indeed, and for that, I am sorry."

He paused for a long moment as if collecting his thoughts. "But I am also a father–" His voice broke at that moment, and, try as he might, he could not stop the tears from falling. "And my baby is dead. You killed her, Mr. Doe, and for that . . ." He trailed off, as if searching for the right words. ". . . may God forgive you, for I–"

He broke off once more, and closed his eyes, visibly composing himself. "I don't think I need to tell you how I feel," he finished quietly.

He returned to his seat and bowed his head, his shoulders shaking with his sobs as the rest of the court sat in silent amazement.

*********************

Andrew faced William Marshall. Tears filled his eyes as the pastor's gentle words tore at his insides, and he silently prayed, yet again, that he had the angelic ability to reach out to these people and offer comfort and God's Love. Yet, he was condemned to sit and listen to William say things he had never expected to hear from a grieving father. He could see the magnitude of his pain and despair, and was unable to help them. He so admired William for asking God's help in preparing these remarks of forgiveness and compassion.

As he sat there, Carla unobtrusively slipped her hand in his. She could see him react visibly at William Marshall's unexpected remarks...and, Carla discovered, they found their way to her heart, as well. She fought back the tears welling-up in her eyes. This was no forum for a show of emotion of that kind.

When William had finished, there was a silence in the courtroom. Andrew hung his head, and Susan Marshall appeared to be on the brink of a faint.

Finally, the judge was ready to pass her sentence. She had Andrew and Carla rise, then said, "Mr. Doe, a jury of your peers has found you guilty of murder in the first degree. The murder of a child is the most heinous of all crimes, and, after deliberating for some time, I find that I have no choice but to remand you to the county prison, where, two months from this date, you will be put to death by lethal injection. May God have mercy on your soul."

A soft gasp escaped Carla's lips, and only Andrew's hand squeezing hers, kept her from losing it completely.

By the time Carla was able to regain control of herself, she found that John had been cuffed, shackled and was leaving the courtroom with two guards.

"No!" she breathed. "Oh...Dear Lord, NO!"

Brent Summer walked over to Carla. "Good fight, Counselor," he offered, and saw that she was obviously shaken to her very foundation. "Come now, Carla. You didn't honestly think you had a chance to win this one, did you?"

Carla turned angry eyes on her opposition. "How can you stand there gloating, when an innocent man has just be sentenced to die for an act he didn't commit?" she challenged. "What kind of animal are you?"

Summer shrugged, "One who just won a case," he replied. "Although, how you can truly believe that John Doe is innocent, is beyond me."

"You know that your case was all circumstantial, Brent," Carla shot back. "You didn't have one iota of hard evidence...of eyewitness evidence...to present!"

Brent Summer gave her an amused look. "You know, Counselor, I don't remember ever seeing you react this emotionally to losing a case. You didn't earn the name "Dragon Lady" for no reason." He looked thoughtful. "Could it be that you actually became emotionally involved with this one?"

Carla got to her feet and grabbed her briefcase off the table. She turned, one last time, to Brent. "Just tell me this, Counselor," she began. "You know the difference between hard, eyewitness evidence and this pile of circumstantial garbage you got the jury to swallow. Tell, me, Brent...how do you sleep at night?" she seethed, then, stormed past the astonished Summer, and out the door of the courtroom.

**********************

Monica turned off the television, wondering just how this assignment could possibly get any worse.

"Father, give me strength," she whispered. "I don't think I can stand it here for another two months."

And after those two months–how could she possibly stand by and watch those humans put her friend to death?

She sighed heavily and turned to find Tess standing behind her, a painful smile on her lips.

"Tess! Did you hear?"

"Yes, baby, I heard," Tess replied. "But I also heard something more."

Before Monica could question her supervisor's cryptic remark, the entire room was bathed in the Light of God's love . . . and understanding. Finally, she understood the purpose of this assignment.

"Oh, Tess," she gasped, tears filling her eyes. "It's horrible what they've done to him!"

"I know, baby. I know."

Monica could not bear to think of what had just been revealed to her, but it was impossible to block it out. "Andrew needs us!"

Tess wrapped her charge in a warm embrace, tears glistening in her own eyes. "And we'll be there for him, baby. I, for one, will be so glad to see our Angel Boy again!"

Monica nodded and pulled away. "How can these humans do such things!"

Tess sighed. "Only God knows the answer to that one. He had a purpose in all of this for Andrew, and it's time for him to find out what that was."

"Oh, but, Tess—" Monica said sorrowfully.

"No, 'but's, baby," Tess chided gently. "I don't like it any more than you do, but do you want all of this to have been for nothing?"

"No," Monica admitted, "but I would give my angelic status to be able to spare him all of this."

"Me, too, baby." Tess linked her arm with Monica's. "But we can't, and this is all in the Father's plan, so we know that it's for the best. It's time for us to the be the strong ones now, Angel Girl."


	15. Chapter 15

Andrew was taken back to the prison and locked in his cell. Heavily, he sat down on his cot, trying to digest what had just occurred. He was now directly on a path that, if left unaltered, would lead him to death by lethal injection. What in the world did The Father think would be served by allowing this to happen to him?

In his head, Andrew heard the words, "God's ways are not our ways." He, himself, had said them often enough to humans he had been sent to help. But, as for angels... Yet, he was no longer an angel.

If only he could talk to Monica, or Tess. How good Tess's comforting embrace would feel right now. He could almost hear her soothing voice saying, "Now, now, baby...Tess is here. The Father is in control, and you know he won't forsake you!"

"But, I feel forsaken!" he breathed out loud.

"Hey! Kid-killer!" one of the inmates, across the aisle from Andrew, called out to him. "Word's out you're gonna die for what you did!"

"Couldn't happen to a more deserving SOB!" another joined in, and others on the cellblock also joined the chorus of jeers and jibes.

Andrew lay down on his cot, facing the wall, and covered his ears, so as not to have to hear the clamor. Yet, he couldn't shut out the words of William Marshall, words that repeated over and over in his head, until he was certain he was going insane.

When the lights finally went off, the shouting and jeering ceased; yet Andrew continued to hear the voice of William Marshall. He knew that, for him, there would never again be rest...not any more.

The following morning, Andrew, and the other prisoners, were taken to the exercise yard, just after breakfast. Andrew stayed off, by himself, until the guards came to take everyone back to their cellblocks.

Andrew waited until the rest had gone, and then made his way to the door. A huge form stepped out from behind the half-opened door, obstructing his entrance. With a startled gasp, Andrew realized it was Wild Bill!

Bill grinned broadly, closing the door behind him. Looking frantically around the exercise area, Andrew saw that the guards were nowhere in sight.

"Why, hello, gorgeous," Bill sneered. "Looks like it's just you and me."

Andrew began to back rapidly away, eyes filled with fear.

Bill followed him. "Awwww, now...you ain't afraid of me, are ya? Not after that trouncing you gave me in the showers that night." He reached Andrew, and, grabbing him by the collar, shoved him back against a cinderblock wall, knocking the wind out of him.

"Too bad you didn't know that no one makes a fool out of Wild Bill and lives to enjoy it!" Bill spat, and his hammy hand clamped over Andrew's mouth, preventing him from making any noise or calling for help. "Ya know...it's a shame you wouldn't just be friends. All ya had to do was kiss my a s s, and then we'd both have been happy!" He chuckled dryly and briefly. "Too late for that now, though. Now, you've gotta die, kid." Bill reached into his jumpsuit, pulling out a switchblade knife. With one motion it opened, revealing a 7" blade. Andrew's eyes went wide, and he struggled frantically to be free of Bill's grasp. "Ain't she a beaut?" Bill asked, admiring the weapon. "I had to call in a lot of favors to get her, and I'll have to permanently lose her after I do you. But, she's one sweet blade!"

Andrew continued to struggle futilely. Bill bent the arm holding the switchblade, pulling it back. Then, with one swift, brutal movement, he thrust it up between Andrew's ribs, piercing his lung.

Andrew felt the searing pain in his chest, and knew that the knife had done serious damage. He then felt another pain, lower in his abdomen. The blade had hit his spleen, and Andrew's head began to whirl kaleidoscopically as Bill stabbed him once more, in the chest -- targeting his other lung -- then let go of him, allowing Andrew to sink, writing, to the pavement.

Blood seeped rapidly from the wound in his abdomen, but Andrew also felt fluids gathering in his lungs. Wild Bill stood for a moment, watching with a cold detachment as Andrew lay on the pavement, exsanguinating. A dark puddle of blood began to form on the pavement, at his side, and dark stains were spreading rapidly in two places on the front of his shirt.

Leaving Andrew for a moment, Bill located a drainpipe that had been spilt horizontally, but never fixed (a new one had been installed alongside it), and slipped the knife carefully into the opening, allowing it to fall down inside the pipe, where it would never be found. He then checked his clothing for traces of blood, and, finding none, he walked back to the door, stopping where Andrew lay, now barely moving.

"Payback is a bitch, ain't it kid?" he laughed and, opening the door, he walked casually back into the building.

Dark spots were beginning to obscure Andrew's vision, and breathing was now almost totally impossible for him. He could hear gurgling sounds as he fought for each breath, and knew that he was drowning in his own blood and fluids. The pain was indescribable. Slowly, his lids began to close, his lashes making blond crescents on his cheeks.

He tried to utter a prayer to The Father, but no words came out, so he prayed it silently. "Father...I don't know why I had to die...but...Thy will be done. Take me quickly, Father...please...take me quickly! Into Thy hands... I commend...my spirit."

It was at that moment, that everything was bathed in golden light, and Andrew felt a warmth and comfort he hadn't known in what seemed an eternity. Sensing a hand on his shoulder, he opened his eyes to see Tess, on her knees beside him, and Monica, tears in her eyes, standing just behind Tess.

Tess smiled. "Hello, baby," she whispered, and Andrew thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.

"Tess!" He managed, now able to speak.

"It's over, Andrew. The pain is over now...and so is the ordeal you went through in human form."

Andrew found that he could, indeed, stand up. Helping Tess back to her feet, he looked down saw what had been, just a few short moments ago, the shell that held his mortal soul. Yet, as he regarded himself in angelic form, he noticed that he still had the body he always had as an angel. He looked confused as he again regarded his human form, now void of life. "How...how...?" he faltered.

Monica stepped forward, hugging her friend. "That is just a shell, Andrew," she explained. "When you ceased to exist as a human, the shell remained behind. You have your angelic form back now, and it is a sight for sore eyes!"

Tess took Andrew's hands. "I know you've endured a terrible thing, baby...but, God did have a reason for it."

Andrew nodded. "I know that now...I know what it is...even without you telling me." He shook his head incredulously. "All the anger, frustration, pain and anguish is gone...totally gone, Tess, and I know what The Father wanted me to learn. As the Angel of Death, I had never truly known the suffering and aloneness humans have to endure as they face death. God wanted me to experience this...in the most grueling way...to help me help them, when I come to take them home, and when I have a case where a human is struggling with his relationship with The Father. I have now felt, first hand, what it is to feel apart and cut off from God's Love and Peace. I can now relate to mortals, in a more profound way, and help them find the comfort of knowing that, even in dying, God is with them, and will never leave them," Andrew finished.

"Welcome back, Andrew!" Monica rejoiced, emotionally. "We would have been here for you, if we had been allowed," she added.

Nodding, Andrew replied, "I know that. And, I won't say I couldn't have used your comfort and help."

"Well," Tess said then. "Standing around here sobbing our eyes out isn't getting The Father's work done, and there is still work left to do." She looked distastefully around. "Come on, babies...let's get out of here!"

Andrew paused. "You go on, Tess...you and Monica. I have some things left to do."

"You do what you have to," Tess replied. "Miss Wings and I will meet you at that delightful all-you-can-eat Barbecue buffet, just off the highway, beyond town. I think we deserve to celebrate a little," she grinned contemplatively.

"I'll join you as soon as I can," Andrew promised and, after receiving a kiss on the cheek from Monica, and a loving hug from Tess, Andrew watched his friends disappear from the prison yard.

Andrew suddenly noticed that he wore his dove-gray suit...his 'work clothes', as he jokingly called them. Smiling, he looked towards heaven. "Thank you, Father. I know you've forgiven me for my weaknesses during the ordeal. I have to admit, I shocked even myself! But, the understanding I've gained - about the human spirit and the pain of detachment from Your Love -- was worth anything I had suffered as a mortal. Thank you for the wisdom, and for the tools with which to better do my job."

Having said this, Andrew - surrounded by the Light of The Father -- opened the door to the cellblock, and went inside. He walked down the aisle, thinking how different the place both looked and felt, now that he walked in God's Light. Gone were the fear and the hopelessness of the place. He now saw only sad and lonely men, most separated from the Love of God, and felt like weeping for them.

Andrew reached one cell, and paused. Wild Bill sat on his cot, humming calmly, as if he had not just killed a human being in cold blood. Bill suddenly felt a presence beside him, and looked quickly up, only to see Andrew - surrounded by a golden glow, wearing an immaculate gray suit - standing beside his cot.

With a cry of disbelief, Bill sprang to his feet, backing away from the vision. "What is this?" he rasped, not daring to believe his eyes.

You don't recognize me, Bill?" Andrew asked gently.

"You...NO! No! It can't be! You...you're..."

"Dead?" Andrew ventured. "No...as you see. I just wanted to see you, one last time, and bring you a message from God."

"GOD?" Bill gasped, then shook his head. "Say, what kind of trick is this?" he demanded.

"Bill, this isn't a trick. I'm an angel...and God wants me to tell you, that, no matter what you have done...He loves you, and He is extending his hand to you."

Shaking his head, Bill moved into the far corner of the cell. "I know this is some kind of joke!" he repeated, terrified. He leaped for Andrew, but the angel could not be touched.

"Please, Bill. Reach out and take The Father's hand. He wants to help you...to give you peace. Reach out...take what He offers. It will make life bearable, even in here," Andrew finished.

"Get out of here!" yelled Bill. "Whatever you are, get the hell out of here! I don't want nothin' from your God!"

"He's your God, too, Bill."

"Get out!" Bill shouted, and the other inmates began to yell at him to shut up.

"There's still a chance for you, Bill. I'll pray that one day you'll understand that God's Grace and Love are for you, too." With that he vanished; leaving Bill huddled in a corner, shaking violently.

************************

Carla came home from work the day after the sentencing, depressed and beaten-down. She had toyed with the idea of staying home that day, but something inside told her that it would be easier on her if she went to work, and tried to take her mind off her pain.

But, work had not achieved that objective, and she returned home from a day that had only served to further upset her. As she passed her answering machine, she saw that the light was blinking. Taking a second to put down her purse, Carla pushed the "play" button, and leaned back against the breakfast counter to listen.

The voice was that of Jill Stanford, a friend of hers that worked for the judge who had tried Andrew's case. The message was: "Hi, Carla. Look, I'm so sorry about your client...about John Doe. When the message came to the judge's office, that he had been killed, I knew you had to be feeling just awful. I know you fought hard for this one, and I'm sorry you won't have the chance to get him off through an appeal. I think you had a good chance..."

Carla stood, frozen to the spot. She couldn't have heard what she thought she had heard. Numbly, she rewound the message then played it back. "When the message came to the judge's office, that he had been killed..." Carla forced herself to swallow, and tried not to panic. Surely, she reasoned, Jill had merely received some inaccurate information.

With trembling fingers, Carla picked up the receiver and punched #4 on her phone buttons, the number for Jill. The phone rang three times, and then Jill's voice came on the line. "Hello?"

Carla fought to steady her voice, failing miserably. "Jill?" she ventured.

"Carla?" Jill replied. "Carla...is that you?"

"Yes," she managed. "Jill..."

"Are you all right? You sound AWFUL!" Jill continued.

Forcing herself to take a deep breath, Carla said, "About that message you left me on the answering machine...about...John Doe..."

"Oh...yeah," Jill responded. "I was really shocked to hear it. I know you thought you had a good shot at getting him off in the appeals process, and..."

"It can't be TRUE," Carla then said, her voice hinting of panic.

"You mean...that was the first you heard about it?" Jill asked her.

"Yes," was the soft reply.

"Oh, Carla. I'm so sorry. I thought it would have gotten to you right away! It happened this morning, and...well, I'm so sorry you had to hear it from an answering machine!" Jill told her.

"W...what happened?" Carla asked, sinking into a chair by the phone.

"He...John Doe, that is...was stabbed in the exercise area of the prison. A guard found him in a puddle of blood. He'd been stabbed three times, one in the stomach, and two in the chest. He had been dead over an hour before he was found. Carla...I'm so sorry."

Carla looked at the receiver, and slowly set it down in the cradle. Her mind refused to accept what she had just heard, and she automatically turned on the TV set, knowing that normalcy would return with the comforting drone of the newscaster's voice.

"John Doe, recently found guilty of killing 11 year-old Elsie Marshall, and yesterday given the death penalty, was found stabbed to death today, in the exercise yard of the county prison, where he was being held.

"Doe was found by a guard, who immediately called an ambulance, but Doe was pronounced DOA at Angels of Mercy Hospital..."

Standing to her feet, Carla covered her mouth with her hands, backing away from the TV set, and crashing into an end table, upsetting a vase and the flowers it held. She began to shake violently, and a small, desperate cry came from between her fingers. She felt herself on the verge of blacking out, and sought the couch, huddling in a corner, unable to get control.

"Oh...John," she breathed, grasping the arm of the couch desperately. She shook her head. "No...no! It can't be true! Oh, Sweet Lord...this can't be true!" she cried pitifully. She paused a moment, then grabbed the couch pillows and began hurling them at anything she could knock over. "No! There is no 'Sweet Lord'!" she cried. "John was the most devout believer, and You let him DIE!" She pounded her fists into the couch seat, again and again. "He loved You and trusted You to save him, and this is how You repay his faith? Letting him die, alone and in misery, in the exercise yard of a prison?" She looked up, her face contorted with anger and pain. "What kind of a God ARE you? Is this how you treat your Faithful?"

A soft golden glow began to light up the dark corner close to the couch. At first, Carla was too shaken and distraught to notice it, but, as it grew brighter, and a shape began to take form, she looked over, and her eyes grew wide. The next moment, Andrew was standing there, looking incredible in an immaculate gray suit, and smiling at her.

"J...John?" she ventured, not knowing now what to believe, and even deeper in shock.

"I'm real, Carla," he supplied. She rose on shaky legs, and walked, still disbelieving, over to where he stood. "John?" she again ventured.

"Actually..." he began, but had to reach for her quickly, as she began to sink to the floor. "Hang on," he soothed, and helped her over to the couch, where he sat down with her, taking her deep into his comforting embrace. For a long moment, he rocked her in his arms...and Carla cried against the front of his shirt. It didn't matter to her HOW this had happened. What mattered was that he was there, and seemed to be whole and well.

It was a long time before Carla could pull herself together enough to look at Andrew and realize that something above the normal was going on. Tears glistening in her eyes, she drew slowly back and looked at him. "Oh...my God," she breathed. "What is going on? John...tell me!"

"My name is Andrew, Carla and..." he paused, then continued. "And...I'm an angel."

Carla's face lost all color. "You're a...a...what?" she asked weakly.

"An angel, from God," he answered straightforwardly.

Shaking her head, Carla held up her hands in a helpless gesture. "No...oh, no...John...what are you saying?"

"Carla...just look at me," he pressed, and she did, her eyes taking in the golden halo of light that encompassed his entire body.

"I...I just don't understand!" she exclaimed.

"The Father felt that I needed to live as a mortal, for a time, and to experience death, first hand. You see...I'm not just an angel...I'm an Angel of Death." He finished.

For a long moment, she looked at him. Finally, she breathed, "You're telling me the truth,!"

"Yes...I am," he nodded.

"And," she continued, "then, there IS a God!"

Andrew smiled, "Oh...yes, there is...and He loves you, very much."

"What have I done?" she then gasped. "I've denied Him for years and years! I lost my Faith in college, when God wasn't "in" for "informed people. I blamed Him for allowing you to be killed, I..." here she looked desperately at Andrew. "What have I done?"

"You've done nothing that God won't forgive in an instant," Andrew reassured her. "Just open your heart to Him, and He'll do the rest."

"But...how could you have been killed this morning at the prison?" she continued, still trying to comprehend all that had been revealed to her.

"That was a mortal body. I returned to my true angelic being as soon as my mortal soul departed." Andrew drew Carla back into his embrace. "It's something that is really difficult to explain to a mortal. But, I had to come to you, because I knew you would be upset when you heard about my 'death', and I wanted you to know the truth."

She looked up into his green eyes, now even more stunning and compelling, full of a light she had never seen before. "So...God wanted the Angel of Death to...die?"

He nodded. "Simply put, yes."

She then looked down at her hands. "I'm so ashamed," She whispered.

"Ashamed? Why?" he queried.

"Andrew...I...I was starting to..." She paused, unable to go on.

"To what?" he coaxed gently.

"Oh, Andrew...I was starting to care for you...a lot! And, now I find that you're an angel!"

Chucking softly, Andrew replied, "There was no way you could know that I had been an angel, and I certainly wasn't one when we met and you took my case. The fact that you were coming to care for John Doe is, in no way, a sin...of any kind!"

"There was just something about you...something innocent, vulnerable...sort of...otherworldly. I don't know how to describe it, but...I felt that there was something special about you, and I felt that you had nothing to do with that murder," Carla told him.

"And, you were right," he returned. "I was on the scene to take Elsie Home."

"Home? As in Heaven?" she ventured, and Andrew again nodded.

"Then, you saw the murderer?" she asked, her eyes suddenly lighting up.

"I saw what happened, but The Father doesn't want me to go any farther with this."

Carla looked confused. "But, Andrew, if you saw the murderer..."

Reaching out with one hand, Andrew gently placed his index and middle finger over her lips. "I can't tell you anything, Carla. God has a plan, and I don't have the right to thwart it." He brought the two fingers to his lips, kissed them, then placed them tenderly back on her mouth. "I have to go, now." He told her, rising, and helping her up, too. "There's more I have to do. I just wanted to come to you and thank you for all you did for me, during the trial, and before..."

"But...I'll see you again, Andrew..." she hastened urgently.

He just smiled. "We'll see. But not for a long, long time."

"You mean...I won't see you until I..."

"That's how it has to be," he explained.

Tears stinging her eyes, she implored, "Not even once more?"

For an answer, Andrew leaned close, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. "I'll never forget you, Carla...never," he said, and, the next instant, he had gone.

That same night, Carla tossed and turned in her bed, unable to fall asleep. Her mind was too full, and she still hadn't been able to fully digest all the revelations of that evening.

Before that evening, she hadn't believed in God since her childhood. Now, she knew for certain that God was real, and that He loved her and accepted her back into His fold with no questions or conditions, but that she walk in Faith.

Then, there was the matter of John Doe, and Andrew's appearance and revelation.

John Doe was dead - stabbed in the exercise yard of the prison - yet, John was not really John, but Andrew -- an Angel of Death.

"But, while he was in human form, he wasn't really Andrew...but John," Carla said out loud, and sighed. She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her shins. "Whoever he was, I was getting in really deep," she murmured. She rested her cheek on her knees. "What am I doing??" she scoffed. "John Doe is gone, and Andrew is an angel! He's not even human! But...I'm going to miss him...I really am." She touched her fingertips to her mouth, where, not too long ago, Andrew had applied a gentle kiss to his fingers and placed it on her lips. "I don't want him to go," she breathed, "I want him in my life!"

It was then that she had the impulse to turn on the radio beside her bed. Maybe the Oldies station she had on would play something soothing, and help her to shut down her mind enough to sleep.

"The Lion Sleeps Tonight", by the Tokens, was just finishing and the voice of Mike Mendez at Midnight came on. "That was 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight'," Mendez said, in his deep, after-hours voice. "You're listing to WOLD - your radio station for Portland and surrounding areas. It's currently 12:45, in the late-night hours, and I am taking dedications. Here's a dedication: going out, "To Carla, from Andrew...forever, your angel".

Carla looked at the radio in total disbelief. It couldn't be! And yet, she knew, without a doubt, that it was. Tears in her eyes Carla listened to the words of the old song by the Mystics:

"Hush-a-Bye, Hush-a-Bye

Oh, my darling, don't you cry.

Guardian angels up above,

Take care of the one I love

Pillows lying on your bed,

Oh, my darling, rest your head.

The Sandman will be coming soon,

Singing you a slumber tune

Lullaby, and good night

In your dreams, I'll hold you tight

Lullaby and good night

'til the dawn's early Light."

As she listened to the song, Carla felt a warmth and comfort wash over her, and, she then knew, that even though she might never again see Andrew, he would be watching over her. She would never lose him.

Lying back on her pillows, a smile played on Carla's lips as she closed her eyes. "Thank you, Andrew," she whispered, then, sleep claimed her.


	16. Chapter 16

William sat alone in his study, staring blankly at the open pages of his Bible. The text for his upcoming sermon came from Hebrews 11—the faith chapter. But how could he preach to his people about faith when he himself was engaged in a daily battle to hold onto what few shreds of his own he could salvage?

His mind returned to the phone call he had received earlier that morning. John Doe was dead–violently stabbed and left to drown in his own blood. His body had been quickly cremated and his ashes scattered in the prison yard. Surprisingly, William felt no satisfaction at the news. All the deaths in the world couldn't bring his Elsie back. And he _wanted_ her back–and he wanted to know why. Why her? Why his baby?

"It was her time, Mr. Marshall."

William's head snapped up at the sound of another voice in his study, and he felt the blood drain from his face in a rush when he saw that the voice belonged to the man that had killed his daughter. His mind could not, at first, comprehend what his eyes were telling him. It was a long moment before he even noticed that the man in front of him was enveloped in a soft light.

"God help me," he breathed, for the grief over his daughter's loss had driven him to insanity.

"Don't be afraid, William," Andrew said. "You're not insane. My name is Andrew, and I'm an angel."

A prickly fear ran up William's spine at those last words. "You are not an angel," he said in a low, wary voice, his hand gripping the edge of his Bible. "A demon, perhaps, but people–murderers–do [i]_not_[/i] become angels when they die."

"No, they don't," Andrew agreed. "But I am neither human nor a murderer, William."

"But you were there," William said. "Your fingerprints . . . the blood . . .."

"I was there, yes. But I was there to take Elsie Home. I did not kill her."

"Home?"

"I'm an Angel of Death," Andrew replied gently, "and it was Elsie's time."

William regarded him for a long moment. "You are truly an angel?"

Andrew nodded. "Yes, I am."

"If you didn't kill her, then . . .." William eyes grew wide as understanding dawned, and he buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God," he sobbed. "I can't go through this again!"

Andrew moved around the desk and knelt next to the weeping man. "William, listen to me. God knows how hard this has been for you. He knows! Trust Him to take care of you."

William calmed himself and looked up at Andrew. "What happened to my baby?"

Andrew's face clouded over for a moment. "An accident. A terrible accident."

"And you?" William asked. "How is it that an angel of God has something like this happen to him?"

Andrew smiled, almost to himself. "Even angels need to learn some lessons occasionally."

Sensing from Andrew's cryptic remark that he would get no further explanation about that subject, William asked, "This other person–the one who killed Elsie–is he, or she–"

"He has his own angel with him as we speak." William was about to say more, but Andrew stopped him. "Trust God in this as well."

William suddenly looked, for all the world, like a child lost on the street. "What am I supposed to do?" he asked plaintively.

Andrew rose. "Work on your sermon. Comfort your family–mourn with them. And believe that God will see you through this, for He will. Trust me," he finished with an enigmatic smile.

William closed his eyes and sighed, knowing that this strange and wonderful creature was right. He heard a slight noise, like the rustling of pages, and he opened his eyes to find himself alone once more. He looked down at his Bible to find the page turned. Paying it no mind, he was about to flip back to his text when a particular verse stood out on the page.

"_Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares_."

And then, the full impact of what had just occurred hit him and he slowly exhaled the breath that had caught in his throat.

********************************

James tossed his suitcase on the bed and snapped open the locks, his mind in a whirl of thoughts and emotions so overwhelming and confusing he could not pull them together into any kind of semblance of order. He acted on blind impulse, pulling out the meager contents of the dresser drawers and indiscriminately throwing them into the suitcase. John Doe was dead–the news of which had stunned James, rendering him speechless for a full minute. He opened the last drawer and seeing the loose bills strewn along the bottom, he paused momentarily in his mad rush to escape, and gathered the money carefully.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It wasn't supposed to happen at all. He gripped the edge of the drawer and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't fight the guilt anymore, doubled over now with the death of an innocent man whose face haunted him every minute of the day.

He looked back at the open piece of luggage on the bed. He was tired of running; he was tired of everything, but in his despair, he could think of nothing else to do. He walked over to the bed and stuffed the stray clothes inside the suitcase and reached for the top.

The room was suddenly bathed in a soft glow of light.

"You can run, James–from the truth, from yourself, even from the law. But you cannot rum from God."

James started and whirled at the sound of Monica's voice to find her standing behind him, in the center of the light. He backed away from her.

"What's happening?" he demanded in a shaky voice.

"Don't be afraid, James," she told him. "I am an angel, sent by God."

"An angel?" he repeated.

Monica smiled and nodded. "Yes. Oh, James," she said, "God loves you so very much."

James gave a snort of derision. "Then He doesn't know what I've done."

"Of course He knows," she contradicted. "And He loves you just the same."

James stared at her, his eyes filling with tears, his reserve crumbling to dust before his eyes. "I didn't mean to do it," he whispered hoarsely. "I was just trying to help her." Tears spilled over onto his cheeks. He sank to the floor, giving himself up to the guilt and pain he had been trying to push away for months.

Monica knelt next to him and gathered his shaking form into her arms. She held him as racking sobs tore his body.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed brokenly, clinging to her like a lifeline. "I'm so sorry."

"I know you are, and so does God," she told him, smiling triumphantly. Finally, she had gotten through to him! She glanced heavenward, radiating joy.

"But she's dead," James wept, sounding as though his heart would break at any moment. "They're both dead, and it's all my fault!"

Monica held him closer, her own heart in danger. What could she say to help her assignment? She glanced up to find that the matter had been taken out of her hands.

Andrew knelt next to them. "James."

The sound of a strange voice worked its way through the sobs to James' ears. He pulled away from Monica and looked over through teary eyes at Andrew.

"You!" he gasped. "But–but how is that possible?"

"I am an angel as well," Andrew replied.

James studied him, sensing something familiar in this angelic being before him. His eyes widened a moment later. "You were there–at the house, and in my dream."

Andrew nodded solemnly. "Yes, I was. I'm the Angel of Death."

James' eyes filled with tears once more. "You took my family? To Heaven?"

Andrew nodded. "And I'm here now to let you know that you are in no way responsible for what happened to me."

"But you died–" James protested.

"My experience was necessary and proper, and above that, it was God's will," Andrew replied. "And you could not have prevented His will from being accomplished."

James bowed his head. Maybe someday those words would mean something to him, but for now– "I'm sorry," he whispered. "God forgive me–I'm so sorry."

At that moment, he felt a peace wrap itself around his heart, and he sighed in relief. He looked back up at the angels. "I have to go back."

Monica and Andrew exchanged smiles, and Monica looked at James. "He'll be with you every step of the way, James."

James nodded. He knew that now, and he only wished that he had known it thirty years ago. The next few days would be hard, but James knew that everything would turn out all right in the end.

Andrew reached out and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I can get you some good legal representation if you'd like."

There was fear in James' eyes, but Andrew was pleased to see that he faced it squarely. "I'd like that," James replied. And he rose to begin the preparations for his journey back home.

***************************

James pulled open the door to the police station, his insides tied up in knots so tight he could hardly walk. Trembling, he made his way up to the front desk, and waited for the officer on duty to acknowledge his presence.

The officer finished shuffling his papers and then looked up at him. "Can I help you?"

James took a deep breath. "I'd like to turn myself in for the death of Elsie Marshall."

*********************************

James let out a slow breath and rested his head on his folded hands. The ensuing chaos that had erupted after his announcement had yet to die down. For the moment, however, he was far away from it all, locked in a holding room, waiting for the dumbfounded goddess of Justice to gather her wits about her and render her verdict on his fate.

It was not an easy wait, for in the interim, he would face the family of the child he had killed. They would, in fact, arrive at any moment. He rose nervously and began to pace. The rough fibers of the orange jumpsuit chafed against his skin, but he barely noticed for the way his stomach was turning itself inside out. As he returned to his seat, he heard a key turn in the lock, and he looked up to see the family quietly file into the room.

"Just let me know when you're ready to leave," the officer said, closing the door behind himself.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as the two parties faced each other across the table. James noticed that while William appeared somewhat collected, Susan and Kevin were not so fortunate. Susan was the first to stir.

"I have already wept more tears than I thought I possessed," she began. "Just when I thought this was over—" She broke off and looked down at the handkerchief she was absently twisting in her fingers, musing over her words. A moment later, she glanced back up. "I want to know what happened–not what's in the police report–we've read that. I want to hear it from you."

In hushed tones, James told them everything. Before he was even halfway through, he broke down into tears, and when he was finished, he looked up to find that the Marshalls were in no better condition.

"I am prepared to accept whatever consequences are given to me," James finished. "What I did was horribly wrong, and no matter how sorry I am, I know that it will never change what happened."

"Thank you," William said.

Kevin stared at his father. "You're _thanking_ him?" he asked incredulously. "This is so stupid!"

"Kevin," his father began.

"No!" Kevin interrupted, pushing back his chair and turning on James accusingly, the tears choking his voice. "You left her!"

James closed his eyes. "If I could give my life in exchange for your sister's I would."

But Kevin just shook his head. "You can't, though. But my sister might still be alive if you hadn't run away!"

Without waiting for a reply, he stalked over to the door. The officer, who was keeping a close eye on the proceedings through the window, saw him coming and unlocked the door and let him out.

James didn't try to stop him from leaving. In fact, he could understand how he felt, which only made his guilt all the greater.

"I think we should leave now," Susan declared abruptly, getting out of her seat and casting her husband a look unfathomable to James, but one, he ventured, that did not bode well for the man.

Without a word, William rose and followed his wife out the door.

Once he was alone again, James leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in relief. The worst part was over. He had finally faced the Marshalls and owned up to what he had done. He felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his body enabling him, at last, to breathe again.


	17. Chapter 17

Carla's head was reeling. The real murderer of Elsie Marshall had just turned himself in at the police station. Finally, justice would be served, and the Marshalls could find closure in the fact that the true killer had been found!

Feeling more than elated, Carla began to get ready for work. That was when the feeling gripped her. She should go down to the jail and see this James Gilbert, face to face! Maybe she could inform him just what he had put both an innocent man and the family of the deceased child through! Maybe she could help him...

"Hold on!" Carla exclaimed, dropping her hairbrush back on the vanity table. "Where did THAT come from?" She paused, and then looked around, as if trying to seek out an unseen entity. "Andrew?" she ventured, "Did you pop that into my head?"

Without knowing why, she pressed the button that turned on the radio. A song was playing:

"You are my special angel,

Sent from up above."

Smiling, Carla turned off the radio and nodded. "So, that's it, huh? I'm supposed to go and help this creep?" She sighed with resignation. "WHY am I surprised?" She continued to look around the empty room. "Andrew...are you certain you're an angel?" she laughed lightly.

Again, she was compelled to turn on the radio, and heard:

"Devil or angel,

I can't make up my mind

Which one you are..."

Turning off the radio, Carla shook her head. "Looks, angelic attributes, and a sense of humor, too," she grinned, and picked up the receiver to call the jail and make arrangements to see James Gilbert.

************************

James sat alone in the same room Carla had first seen John Doe in, many weeks before. Carla studied the man before she had the guard open the door and let her inside. He seemed completely lost and vulnerable. She had heard his confession. The gun had gone off as he took his hands out of his pocket to try and catch Elsie as she took a tumble. He had run, in a moment of fear and panic. Now, Carla wanted to hear this from James's own mouth.

Nodding to the guard, who unlocked the room, Carla went inside.

"I'll be right outside, if you have any problems with him, or you want to leave," the guard told her.

Carla looked at James, and his eyes met hers. "Oh, I don't think we'll have any trouble, thanks," she answered, and the guard shut the door, locking the two in together.

Going to the table, Carla sat opposite James, extending her hand. "James, I'm Carla Leigh. I'm the attorney who defended John Doe during his trial for murder."

James hesitated for a moment, then, seeing kindness in the eyes of the woman who proffered her hand, he put out his hand as well. "James Gilbert," he replied.

"Now, this is a long shot, James" Carla continued, "But do you know someone named Andrew?"

James's eyes lit up. "Andrew? Yes!." He then went quiet, as he suddenly thought she may mean someone else. What were the odds that this woman knew the same angel that had revealed himself to him?

Carla smiled. "Yes, I mean the angel," she nodded, as if she had read his mind.

James looked at her, wide-eyed. "You know Andrew? The angel, Andrew?"

"Yes," she replied. "Andrew revealed himself to me after the death of John Doe. You must know, that John was the mortal embodiment of Andrew."

Hanging his head, James only nodded.

"Well, if you met Andrew, then you know that you have no reason to hang your head. In fact, it was Andrew who urged me to come and see you. I'd like to offer my services in your defense."

"You...want to defend me?" James ventured.

"Yes. You were wrong to run, but it was a human response. You didn't kill Elsie Marshall on purpose, did you?"

"No!" James answered, intensely. "I was walking down the street, and I saw a little girl start to trip and fall. I was carrying a gun I had just bought from a friend. He sold it to me for almost nothing, and I thought I could unload it at a gun show that was going to be in town that weekend." He shook his head ruefully. "When I pulled my hand out of my pocket, to break the little girl's fall, it caught on the trigger, the safety must not have worked properly, and the gun went off!" his eyes pooled with as-yet unshed tears. "I didn't mean to kill that little girl...I swear to you, I didn't!" He fought to contain himself, then added softly, "Andrew believed me."

Carla smiled. "I know he did." She replied.

"What are they going to do to me?" He then asked.

"Oh, I imagine we can plea bargain, and get you a rather light sentence. It was an accident, you did eventually come forward on your own accord, and your record has been spotless up to now. This wasn't a deliberate homicide. I think we can prove that." Here she added, "Of course, I didn't do very well as counsel for poor John. Maybe you want someone with a better track record in this case."

Shaking his head, James said, "I know you tried your best for John...and I know you'll try your best for me. If Andrew wants you to represent me, and both you and I believe he does, then I would be foolish to turn you down."

"I think so," she grinned, and opened her briefcase, removing a pile of papers and setting them out in front of her. "Now, James, let's get down to the business of this case."

***************************

Tess was waiting–angelically–for the Marshalls when they got home from the police station. Relatively speaking, things had gone well down there with James, but Tess knew that once they had left the station, things had taken a turn for the worse among themselves. She could hear them arguing as they came up the walk, and she knew that they would need a little "help" to get them through this.

Susan burst angrily into the house, flinging the door open so hard, it slammed against the back wall. "I cannot believe you, William," she stormed. "That man killed our daughter and you act as though nothing happened!"

William and Kevin followed her into the house, and William carefully closed the door, ignoring the dent that the doorknob made in the wall. Tess could see that Kevin was just as upset as his mother.

"Susan, let me explain!" William returned, only to have his wife whirl on him.

"Have you forgotten our baby so soon?" she threw back.

"No," he snapped. "I have not forgotten Elsie! How dare you imply that!" He started to say more, but he caught his next words before they could escape and took a deep breath to calm himself. He looked over at his wife. "Don't you see? I'm tired of hating! I hated John Doe, and he was telling the truth–and now he's dead! Hate will only destroy us, and we have to move on!"

At that, Kevin stepped forward, his voice rough with tears. "Dad, he left her by herself dying in the street! Don't you care about that?"

Before William could respond, Tess stepped down into their world.

"Elsie was not alone that day, Kevin."

The family turned at the sound of her voice and Susan and Kevin gasped. "What–what is this?" Susan asked.

"I am an angel, Susan. I was sent by God to help you through this difficult time in your lives."

William stared at her, his mind immediately recollecting that verse he had noticed in his study once Andrew had gone.

"What do you mean that Elsie wasn't alone?" Kevin asked.

Tess looked to William with an eyebrow raised in invitation. He smiled faintly and looked at his son.

"John Doe . . . the man who was at the site . . . he's actually an angel as well–the Angel of Death, to be exact. His name is Andrew, and he was there to take Elsie Home."

Both Susan and Kevin stared at him, unable to reply for a long moment.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Susan asked.

"Because," he answered. "Andrew couldn't–or wouldn't, I don't know which–tell me if the real killer was going to come forward. If I had told you then that John Doe was an angel and innocent of killing our Elsie, and Mr. Gilbert _hadn't_ come forward, you could never have had any peace, Susan. Never."

"William is right, Susan," Tess interjected. "And what this family needs right now is peace. There has been enough hate and despair, and God wants you to live on in His love."

Susan's eyes filled with tears, and William stepped up to brush them away. "Andrew said that it was her time. Nothing would have stopped that." He looked from his wife to his son. "I loved Elsie," he whispered, unable to speak. "How could either of you doubt that?"

Susan burst into tears and Kevin threw his arms around his father.

"I miss her, Dad," he sobbed. "I miss her so much."

"So do I," William replied, drawing his wife into their embrace.

Tess smiled approvingly on the scene. Finally, this family was mourning together as a whole, and would now be able to move forward into the future together as well. Once their sobs had subsided, she spoke to them again.

"Your daughter is safe and sound in the arms of her Father, and one day you will see her again. But for now, you need to complete the work that God has given to each of you. Trust in Him–He will never let you down, and He only has the best in store for you!"

They all nodded, and Tess could even detect a faint trace of a smile among them as they embraced each other again. She looked over to see Monica and Andrew standing on the other side of the room, wearing smiles as large as hers. She walked over to them, visible no more.

"Are you going to tell her?" Monica asked.

"And spoil the surprise, Angel-Girl?" She looked over at Susan. "Oh, no. This is too good for that! I plan on being a little fly on this wall when she finds out!"


	18. Chapter 18

"I'm late," William said, kissing his wife on her cheek. "Will you be okay?"

Susan smiled and patted her bulging abdomen. "Unless this one has any plans to relocate today, and she shouldn't, I think we'll be fine!" She looked up at her husband. "I'll be praying for you."

"Thanks," he replied, and leaned over for a real kiss. He smiled at his wife and then gathered his things and headed for the door.

He was going to prison for the second time that week. After James Gilbert had received a reduced sentence of twenty years, William had felt compelled to begin a Bible study in the prison. James had been the first person to sign up. At first it had been strange to study God's Word with the man who had killed his daughter. It had taken him some time to work through that, but it was worth it in the end. James and many of the other inmates were showing real promise spiritually, and William looked forward to the twice-weekly meetings.

Tess had been right. His work was not done. In fact, he thought, glancing over at his wife, it was only just beginning.

***************************

Andrew had been directed to meet Tess and Monica at a small diner, on the main highway. The assignment -- and his lesson -- were now totally completed, and it was time for the three angelic friends to get together and let their hair down.

As he walked in the door, Andrew spotted Tess and Monica sitting at a table. Tess saw Andrew, and waved him over.

"Did you two start having fun without me?" Andrew teased. He turned a chair around and straddled it with long-legged ease, gazing at his companions, eyebrow raised.

"Tess and I were just sayin' that you really faced a trial-by-fire this time out, Andrew," Monica told him. "It must have been terrible for you...all alone in that prison, then facin' the judge and her sentence, and the Marshall's and their pain."

"What doesn't kill us, makes us stronger," Andrew returned sagely.

Tess gave a grunt of pique. "We are angels. We cannot be killed," she scoffed.

"Ah, " Andrew countered, "but I was in HUMAN form, and I WAS killed." Leaning over, he put an arm around the disgruntled Tess, and gave her a little squeeze, as he added, "But, since I'm alive now, in my angelic form, you're right."

Monica moistened he lips, then asked, "What was it like, Andrew? What was it like to die such a brutal human death?"

Andrew thought a moment, and answered. "Mercifully, most of those memories left when The Father returned me to an angelic state. All that I retained was the knowledge The Father wished me to have. I now understand the human experience of terror and devastation, apartness from God, and...most importantly... death. I know what it is to be mortal and have your Faith pushed to the breaking point. I know why humans, when under these stress factors, find their faith so difficult to hang onto. God help me...as a mortal, I very nearly lost my faith...and I still had my angelic memories to cling to...at least, to some point. Surrounded with all that ugliness and despair, most of those left me, too, at least at the end."

"Well, it's all over now," Tess said. "The Marshalls are getting their lives back together, and are going to be able to go on. James may be incarcerated, but his time will not be wasted, and he has the opportunity to reach out and help so many others who have lost their way. Carla has come back to The Father, and knows that, no matter what, she is never alone." Here, Tess looked at Andrew, who lowered his head so Tess could not see he was smiling. "Angels making song dedications, and sending messages of comfort over the radio! What next?"

" I suppose I could have e-mailed her," Andrew replied thoughtfully, and Tess glowered at him.

Monica laughed. "Well, I think that it is wonderful, the way Andrew has established a sort of connection with Carla through the music she listens to. He used it to help her come to the idea of representing James. James couldn't have had better counsel!"

Tess sighed. "Things are sure different than in the good old days," she muttered.

"Are we talking Good Old Days, like around the time of the Peloponnesian War? " Andrew ventured, a gleam in his eyes. "Or, earlier?"

Tess looked over at Monica. "Miss Wings...will you tell Halo Boy over there, that he is walking on very thin ice?"

Spying a jukebox in the corner, Andrew arose from his chair and walked over to it. The play list included songs popular in the forties and fifties. Running his eyes down the list, he selected a song, slipped in his quarter, and walked back to the table he shared with Tess and Monica, stopping in front of Tess.

The sound of Rosemary Clooney soon filled the room, as she sang, "'ey mambo! Mambo Italiano..." With a flourish, Andrew held out one hand to Tess, but she pushed it away.

"Are you crazy, Angel Boy? I'm too old for this!" she protested.

Andrew shook his head, dancing in front of her. "Come on, Tess! I KNOW you have a few more good mambos left in you! Come dance with me!" Her grabbed a long-stemmed carnation out of a vase on their table, and put it between his teeth, extending his hand to Tess, once again. "Come on, Tess!" he said around the flower stem, "God gives us what we need, when we need it, remember? Where's your Faith?" he teased.

"Tess! Dance with him!" Monica encouraged, and, obviously out numbered, Tess grudgingly put her hand in Andrew's, allowing him to lead her out to an empty section of the hardwood floor.

Monica watched with laughing eyes, as Tess and Andrew did a not-half-bad mambo together. It was partly the carnation, she decided...it was the perfect touch, and Tess seemed to be having the time of her life. She knew one thing for certain: she had never seen Tess move like that before! This was a rare treat!

When the dance ended, the other patrons of the diner all clapped enthusiastically, and Andrew escorted his winded partner back to their table, bowing elegantly in front of her as she sat down.

"Thank you, Ma'am," he said.

Tess fanned herself vigorously with her napkin, and scowled at Andrew. "You've gotta watch that Angel of Death," she said to Monica. "Business must be slow lately. Now he's trying to take angels Home!"

"Oh, Tess! You and Andrew were wonderful!" Monica exclaimed. "Be honest...you were having a good time out there!"

"I will admit no such thing!" Tess muttered, and cast a look at Andrew. "In my younger days, I might have been able to keep up with you, Halo Boy...and maybe even give you a run for your money out there on that dance floor!"

Andrew chuckled with appreciation. "Tess, I have NO doubt of that! But, may I say, I have never partnered anyone more charming."

Tess rolled her eyes. "Oooooo! Oooo! Why did The Father have to give you that silver tongue? When you turn on that Moonlight and Magnolias I just can't stay angry with you!"

"That's the idea," Andrew replied, and he and Monica laughed, while Tess pretended to pout.

"Well," Tess finally said. "I hate to put an end to your hilarity, but The Father has another assignment for us, so we'd better get going." She began to get up.

"May I be chauffeur?" Andrew asked, reaching for the car keys Tess had taken out of her pocket. Tess snatched them away. "IN YOUR DREAMS, Angel Boy." She scoffed, pushing indignantly past him and out the door.

Andrew bowed to Monica. "After you," he said, allowing her to go next. He then followed the two other angels out of the diner, to Tess's waiting red Cadillac convertible and the unending ribbon of blacktop beyond.


End file.
